Handle With Care (This End Up)
by Shibara
Summary: The Decepticons are fed up with Vortex's behavior. They call in the expert.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Handle With Care (This End Up)

**Aft-In-Chief:** Shibara ( shibara-ffnet . livejournal . com )

**Aft-Kicker:** Bibliotecaria_D ( archiveofourown users / Bibliotecaria_D )

**Warnings:** restraint, psychological torture/manipulation, Overlord's lips, and misuse of bubblewrap. Also, adapting an IDW characterization to G1.

**Rating:** PG

**Continuity:** G1 (ish)

**Characters:** Vortex, Overlord, Decepticons

**Disclaimer:** Hasbro owns the Transformers.

**Motivation (Prompt): **_"What if Vortex had met Overlord?"_ + Bubblewrap

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**0 0 ****Part One**** 0 0**

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Life on Earth was strange, after the tense war-world that Cybertron had become. There were long periods of _nothing_ followed by brief periods of intense, hectic _everything._ The battles here cycled in a way they never had on their own planet. Back on Cybertron, the warfront had spanned entire hemispheres, and the fighting never stopped. There were always active hotspots and fortresses ready to launch major offensives. Stand-offs between battalions dug in on either side of contested areas could last years.

Here on Earth, there were two bases. _Two_. Neither really had room to quarter a battalion for three days, much less keep them battle-ready for longer than a week before cramped conditions got someone shot with friendly fire. There were no hotspots or fortresses or even recurring-action areas on Earth. There were raids, temporary outposts, and small-scale battles that were usually over before a local day had passed.

If Megatron or Optimus Prime didn't order it, action didn't happen. Months could pass before the Decepticons showed up causing trouble somewhere or the Autobots snuck under the ocean to harass them preemptively. Especially in winter. Nobody wanted to leave their bases in winter. They'd tried fighting on ice once, and there'd been mechs falling left and right, slipping and sliding through Detroit. Never again!

The Decepticons stuck to the equator after the Detroit battle. Winter on Earth could go frag itself. Still, it'd almost been worth the chill and humiliation of skidding around just to have seen Optimus Prime plow through Megatron on _accident_. The Decepticon leader had slid at the exact wrong moment, and the big rig's brakes were useless on ice. Also, Starscream unintentionally bowling for Minibots while trying to land on the freeway had totally been worth listening to him shriek while stuck upside-down in a snowbank afterward.

So things like winter limited the battle zones even further, lengthening the cycles, and that left Decepticons and Autobots alike with a lot of spare time. Everyone was on alert in case of attack, but 'alert' on Earth didn't mean the same as on Cybertron, where venturing past the perimeter could get mecha sniped. There was a lot of unsecured, faction-neutral territory on Earth. The only perimeters that mattered were the ones surrounding bases and outposts, which left the rest of the planet to wander around on.

It was strange having that much freedom, suddenly. Paired with having a lot of between-battle time to spend doing whatever they wanted, it led to Autobots and Decepticons randomly showing up all over the planet. If neither side made a big deal about what they were doing, then it didn't make them targets. In the lulls between attack and counter-attack, if one side didn't go looking for trouble, the other side often let them be.

It led to the occasional weird incident, however. Skywarp and Thundercracker kept ending up in the Pacific islands, apparently engaged in volcano sight-seeing and sport-flying for unknown reasons. The Insecticons were on a quest to try all the local foods of every country they ended up in, which disturbed street vendors the world over. Oddly, New York City hot dog street vendors just shrugged and asked them what they wanted on their dogs, and the pizza joints mentioned having served stranger customers. Something about mutant turtles.

The Constructicons had some sort of argument while in Egypt. Alarmed locals called for the Autobots when someone overheard Scavenger trying to persuade the others to let him bring the 'lawn ornaments' home to install near Darkmount. Since he seemed to be talking about the Great Pyramids, there was reason for concern, especially since he seemed so insistent on collecting the whole set. Scrapper actually looked relieved when the Autobots arrived to chase the Constructicons out of the country.

The Decepticon air ranks unofficially took over any human city with an air show going on, and the Autobots unofficially let them. The jets didn't seem intent on causing trouble; they just liked watching the humans do air tricks, like indulgent university students attending a kindergarten class. If they were bored enough to stretch their own wings, they'd even show off a display or two of Decepticon parade formations for appreciative audiences.

The Decepticons, in turn, looked the other way during the major car shows. Well, except for those Decepticons who appreciated a nice set of wheels. They joined the Autobots in the ogling during the car shows, because _whoa_, could the humans design some sweet rims!

But that was off-duty. On-duty, there were only so many monitors in the Decepticon base that needed watching. There was base maintenance, of course, but that was mostly left to whoever was out of favor that week. Nobody liked getting sea water and fish in unmentionable areas, and that's what base maintenance inevitably entailed. Even _inside_ the base, which was a mystery the Constructicons were still trying to solve. There was manufacturing energon from the tiny thermal stations and wind farms and whatnot that the Decepticons had installed around the globe, and guarding those hidden energy sources from Autobot interference. There was also transporting the energon back to the base or to the space bridge for shipping to Cybertron.

That still left a lot of Decepticons sitting around doing nothing during their duty shifts. Since that was a recipe for traitors and things getting blown up - these concepts weren't necessarily unrelated - Megatron decided that his Earth forces could use some training. Mandatory combat training rotations were scheduled.

In the short term, that meant the Constructicons got a lot more work suddenly. In the long term, that meant the Decepticons on Earth were slowly being honed from deadly weapons of war into _really fragging scary_ deadly weapons of war. There was something about getting thrown about a training rink regularly that knocked the dull edges off before they got a mecha killed in battle. Live longer, learn more; go on to kill and repeat the cycle.

Meaning that the battles got correspondingly more nasty. If the Autobots hadn't been training just as vigorously over in the _Ark_, the battles on Earth could have taken a turn for the fatal much more often. As it was, the troops on Cybertron were beginning to regard the forces on Earth with a fearful sort of awe. When Prime and Megatron had left Cybertron, they'd left with the best of their factions. What they were now was distilled down from that. The best combat abilities in the factions squared and shared.

That didn't make the mecha being trained any saner. Case in point: Vortex.

Most Decepticons considered training with their own units normal, and training with Megatron a gruesome endurance test of walking through the Pit. There was a rash of traded duty shifts whenever the ex-gladiator and current Supreme Commander decided he wanted some sparring time of his own. He didn't hold the habit of pulling his punches even during training, figuring that pain taught Decepticons not to make the same mistake twice.

That was true, but mostly the mistake they learned not to repeat was sparring with Megatron. Unlike saner mechs, however, Vortex thought bodily injury was hilariously entertaining. He bounced into the training ring to face Megatron like it was adventure time.

Megatron promptly put him through the floor. Literally; Bonecrusher had to extract him from the ceiling of the room below.

Apparently, the loyalty program didn't allow the Combaticons to attack their lord and master even during training. The best they could manage was dodging. That was okay, or so Vortex claimed. He'd had his fun trying to hold up his end of the fight for more than half a klik. That was what he told Hook when he woke up again, anyway.

The surgeon stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head and declaring him as fixed as possible considering the obviously defunct state of his cerebral circuits. He immediately demanded the crazy 'copter get out of his sight.

The Combaticon took being forcibly ejected from the repair bay well. He hummed a little as he walked the halls, in fact. To him, it had been a wonderful day. All of it, from the light training in the morning (a.k.a., playtime with Blast Off) to the heavy training afterwards (a.k.a., introduction of face mask to floor). The night, too, was going rather pleasantly, what with all the little mechly interactions of being accused of insanity and so forth. He could hear the normal hum of conversations coming from the direction of the rec-room, and somebody was screaming in that direction as well. Ah, all the sounds of home.

It had been a peaceful day, overall, and Vortex needed desperately to carve his name into that. Because peaceful was painfully overrated.

A day with such a good start _had_ to have a good ending. The 'copter had to make sure of it. So after the light training (competitive shuttle groping), the heavy training (damaging the floor with his face), and a relatively peaceful refueling (the survivors would crawl back to their quarters eventually), he went for a walk through the _Victory_.

He hadn't even been sure of what exactly he was looking for until he saw him: Breakdown. There was a twitchy Lamborghini loose in the halls. Tsk. Motormaster should know better than to let his resident paranoid out to roam. Who knew who'd stumble upon the poor little car?

The cream-colored Stunticon was walking briskly from a side corridor into the main hall and back again. He was clearly looking for something, and Vortex almost wondered what before deciding it was unimportant. What was important was that one of his favorite victims was out and about and unprotected, busily scanning the floor instead of keeping a look-out for a helicopter with a thing for tormenting him. Vortex felt his spark fill with warmth at the sight.

Breakdown looking for something translated into Breakdown not looking where he was going. His optics were scanning the floor nervously, back and forth. Vortex ghosted up on the Stunticon silently when the smaller mecha came down the hall from the side corridor again. The car's optics were firmly locked on the floor. If he kept on going, just maybe four or five more paces -

_Bump._

Breakdown made a sound like a piece of metal rasping against concrete and jumped backwards, knocking his elbow against the nearest wall. He immediately turned, making sure his back was to it defensively.

Oh dear, now why would he do that? Vortex, full of concern for his fellow Decepticon, came closer to the smaller mecha's trembling frame. To check if he was alright, of course. Defensive body posture and shaking hands surely meant that the Stunticon felt frightened, even threatened. Vortex would be an unsupportive teammate if he didn't see if there was something he could do to help his fellow Decepticon in his time of need!

If that meant he was backing Breakdown into the corner of the corridor one slow step at a time, then he most surely wasn't doing it on purpose. Vortex, looming? Pshaw. Perish the thought.

The Lamborghini started violently when his retreat was cut off by the corner. He started blustering, right on cue. "Vortex. Watch - watch where you're going!" the ground-pounder spat with a slight rumble of those lovely specialized engines.

Vortex stared in silence at the nervous mech a few seconds beyond what was conventionally normal. Once the ground-pounder began fidgeting, the 'copter dipped his helm toward him slightly as if he was confiding a secret. "Are you sure it's here?" he asked quietly, one half of his visor flashing on and off in a knowing wink.

Breakdown looked at him, confused. "I - What do you mean?" The hands he'd pressed to the walls curled a bit, the fingers relaxing slightly as hesitant interest stole some of the fear-tension from them.

"I mean, are you sure that you lost it **here**?" As he spoke, Vortex backed up a step, giving the Stunticon some space. It fostered the tiny hint of security, encouraged the interest, and really just lured the doomed mecha into his verbal trap. He lowered his voice a touch, making the car lean forward to follow him. "Are you sure it isn't where you just came from? Have you looked there **properly**?"

Breakdown glanced back down the corridor with wide, uncertain optics before looking back at the Combaticon. "You don't even - " He caught himself and straightened, pushing away from the wall to fold his arms and tip his chin up defiantly. "What makes you think I'm looking for something?"

The soft growl from the car's engine revved subtly faster, betraying the Stunticon's false bravado, and Vortex listened to the uneasy sound with satisfaction.

He _tsk-tsk_ed with a small shake of his helm. "Breakdown, **of course** you're looking for it. What makes **you** think **I** don't know what you're doing?"

The Combaticon took away the space he had given the trembling mecha, approaching him until their chest-plates almost touched. The Lamborghini stayed strong for a moment longer, but the taller, heavier Decepticon stared him down. After a klik, the car caved and edged away, back slowly pressing into the wall again. The revving climbed higher and higher, more noticeable by the second.

Vortex let him go, just watching. "By now, you should know that I **always** know, Breakdown." The helicopter sighed wearily. "Go on," he flapped a hand dismissively, turning away, "keep looking. I'll just go back to my quarters, so don't bother letting me know when you **do **find it." He flashed his visor over one shoulder. "Because I'll already know, you know."

With that, the 'copter ambled off at a sedate pace in the direction of the Combaticon gestalt quarters. When he reached the first intersection, however, he turned left and stood just inside a maintenance drone closet to listen attentively. It usually took a bit more insinuation and threat for Breakdown to work his way into a full-blown panic, but this was Vortex's good day, after all.

Less than a klik later, the whining of engines had built loud enough to be heard the length of the corridor. Vortex felt it grow steadily in volume and power as Breakdown sprinted back to his gestalt's quarters, blindly seeking reassurance. The revving accelerated, and the accompanying jarring rattle through the metal of the floors and walls became a minor localized earthquake, and, yes, perfect.

'_Right about... now,'_ Vortex thought, and with a _pop_, the lights in the corridor burst.

Followed by the exasperated groans from mecha in the nearby rooms. Followed by Breakdown scrabbling on the Stunticons' door, completely frantic. Followed by Motormaster angrily shouting.

In the complete darkness, Vortex listened to a chorus of curses in a dozen different voices. Nobody was happy, and everyone knew who to blame. They did so, in copious amounts of profanity and at high volume. Doors opened all along the affected corridor, spilling annoyed Decepticons out. Above all the yelling, the high pitched revving of a terrified engine continued, underscored by Breakdown's whimpering and the awkward attempts of his gestalt-mates to calm him down.

Vortex chuckled, amused at the rapidly escalating conflict outside the Stunticons' shared quarters. Eventually, somebody would get around to asking Breakdown why he'd panicked, but for now?

It had been a good ending for a good day. Going to the brig for it later? Totally worth it.

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**0 0 **_**The Aft End (Shibara speaks)**_** 0 0**

This story started during an aimless chat with Bibliotecaria_D. It was all lolz and hypothetical what-ifs and I think right before starting writing it, it was just that, a couple of paragraphs of crackyness and maybe some porn, if I'm not much mistaken.

Then it exploded into plot of some kind. We started thinking what would happen in a more logical light (as much as bubblewrap allows anyway) and stuff went from a self-indulgent, nonsensical, tiny ficlet to a self-indulgent giant monster of a character-driven fic.

It's scary how much thought I have put on a story which involves bubblewrap as a key item, but I figure that more than that, it's about behaviour. And that's a sweet topic, imho.

Anyways, stuff happened. I wrote the first draft, Bibliotecaria_D wrote the awesome fleshing out and prettifying that makes this a fic instead of babbling, and we plotted horrible things for the characters together because there's nothing like being bad people at Decepticon helicopters.

Oh, and now it doesn't have porn anymore. I think.


	2. Chapter 2

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**0 0 ****Part Two**** 0 0**

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Shockwave sat patiently before his console. He'd assumed the status-update meeting with the Earth forces would last around a couple of breems. It was now well into its second cycle.

This was not the first time it had happened. On multiple occasions, Lord Megatron had needed to deal with things that popped up while the meetings were in progress. Generally small things, like urgent reports arriving or the odd fit of Starscreamian pique. As he had during those previous occasions, Shockwave simply waited. One did not walk off to find other work to do while one's commander dealt with interruptions. It would be inexcusably rude, and such a dismissive gesture directed toward a superior officer could get a rude Decepticon executed.

Besides, it gave Cybertron's Guardian a window of opportunity to observe the political and military situation surrounding his commander. Being on Cybertron gave him an edge up on any power struggles in the Earth ranks, but at the same time, being on Cybertron put Shockwave out of sight and often out of mind. He could never pass up any opportunity to gather information or further secure his own position with Lord Megatron. So he patiently waited, and he listened closely.

This time, it seemed Onslaught had just arrived from somewhere, apparently summoned to Lord Megatron's presence immediately upon arrival in order to be reduced to a melted pile of shamed armor plating by the Decepticon Supreme Commander. Lord Megatron took his time peeling thin metal strips off the Combaticon's skidplate using his vocalizer alone. Shockwave watched and took idle notes on technique and particularly flinch-worthy phrasing.

" - completely useless to me if he can't keep his fragging rotor blades off the rest of the troops. And **you** are just as pathetic if you cannot keep your scrap-waste team under control, Onslaught. How many slagging times has Vortex wound up that underclocked glitch - "

'_Ah, Vortex,'_ Shockwave thought. This was most certainly not new, then. Onslaught's gestalt had been troublesome to his leader since day one, and Shockwave could generally do next to nothing to aid him. He had pondered questioning the usefulness of the Combaticons, but logic dictated that their confrontational, belligerent separate personalities were more than made up for by Bruticus' presence on the battlefield. That was more important to the war effort than however bothersome the combiner team seemed to be the rest of the time.

Yet as he waited for the Combaticon leader to be dismissed, Shockwave realized that he might actually be of some help in this particular instance. It would relieve Megatron of the burden of continually disciplining the unrepentant fraggers, and perhaps lead to the Supreme Commander bestowing some favor upon him. An opportunity to curry favor was not to be passed up.

Besides, Shockwave viewed the Combaticon leader's lack of loyalty to the Decepticon Cause as basically offensive. Attempting to overthrow Lord Megatron? Fine. That was acceptable behavior for a subordinate in the Decepticon army. Starscream did that every other day, it seemed. However, the loyalty programming he had aided the screechy Second to install in the Combaticons ensured that they wouldn't betray the Decepticon Cause by betraying Lord Megatron anymore. They had explained to the combiner team at great length - admittedly, in order to grind in how deep the programming went - that the team would now serve the Cause in the Supreme Commander's name.

Direct violence tripped motor control errors; actively trying to attack Lord Megatron caused the Combaticons' weaponry to deactivate, their limbs to go numb, and eventually triggered random tensile cable seizures if the stupid fools insisted on trying to continue. Seditious thoughts, on the other hand, caused a complete system reset. Violence was only to be expected, after all, but it was the resentment and outright disagreement that Lord Megatron wished to burn out at the root. It was simple to restrain physical violence in the ranks, but bringing mecha back to the Cause required much more...coercion.

He'd thought that the logic had been clear, but Shockwave had seen the program logs. The Constructicons tracked how often it was triggered. This wasn't bringing mecha _back_ to the Cause. This was dragging mecha with no belief to begin with kicking and screaming into the ranks. The Combaticons had absolutely no connection to the Cause other than that loyalty program. If they held any belief in it, they would hold at least some respect for its founder and leader. From the frequency the program had been activated, that wasn't true.

The violence-prevention protocols were rarely activated at all, but the thought censorship meant to direct the team back into the Cause continued to run above acceptable numbers. The activation frequency had tapered off as time passed, of course, but that was learned behavior as the Combaticons figured out how to dodge and block the program. That was the reason programmed loyalty didn't last. On a long enough timeline, if the programmed mecha didn't internalize the learned behaviors, it was possible to eventually work around enforced loyalty.

From observing their misbehavior, Shockwave could only conclude that the Combaticons were finding work-arounds instead of learning true loyalty. He held them in contempt because that led him to think that, even now, they weren't Decepticons. They were mercenaries. Chained to the faction, but not invested in it. They were as distasteful as the Neutrals. A civil war that had drained Cybertron and stretched on for nine million years, but they refused to choose a side? At least the Autobots had the strength of conviction to take a stand!

Unfortunately for the Combaticons' stubborn refusal to be tamed into Decepticon soldiers, Starscream agreed with Shockwave's analysis of the program logs. The Decepticon Second was a petty, vindictive slagger. Where Shockwave gathered data and used logic to back his dislike of the combiner team, Starscream passionately hated them for continuing to exist. He'd agreed to tune-up the loyalty program in a dozen years or so, just to spite them.

On a personal level, Shockwave acknowledged that he might, just possibly, still hold an unreasonable grudge against the combiner team for temporarily defeating and exiling him from Cybertron. And, once upon a failed coup, Onslaught had attempted to take over a city from him. Shockwave had thrown the strategist and his entire unit into a detention center for millions of years as recompense, but that still rankled.

So offering Lord Megatron a solution would not only win favor with the Supreme Commander, it'd also serve as a nice bit of revenge for Shockwave. If the advice was accepted, it would rub Onslaught's face in how low he'd fallen that the Combaticon leader was judged incapable of disciplining his own team. The humiliation might even facilitate better conduct from the whole combiner team. Their behavior certainly couldn't get much worse.

With that thought in mind, Shockwave interrupted the tirade. "Lord Megatron, I apologize in advance for my interruption, but I might have a solution. If I may?"

Megatron cut himself off in the middle of roughly shaking his subcommander. Onslaught's cannons made such convenient handles. And while the insides had sensors meant to withstand powerful blasts, the outer casings had no such protection.

The Combaticon was actively trying not to provoke more anger at this point. His attempts to speak reasonably with his Lord had halted the moment Megatron grabbed the barrel, hand threatening to crush it in his grip. Defending his team was not worth the result. Crushed cannon barrels were…painful. Staying silent or making placating noises was far preferable.

"Shockwave, you'd better have something useful to say," the Supreme Commander growled. Onslaught just hung from his hand and waited for the shaking to resume.

"Yes, Lord Megatron," Shockwave said respectfully. "I have recently been made aware of a Decepticon officer who has returned from deployment off-world. He has applied for placement in our newest campaign, and his record is quite exemplary in comparison to some." He did not look at Onslaught, no matter how loud the implication was. The Combaticon's visor twitched, and he turned his head slowly to glare through the screen at Shockwave. "You might find his specialized expertise useful for the issue at hand." Hint hint, the mecha hanging from said hand.

Hint taken. Megatron looked suddenly thoughtful, and oh, Onslaught didn't like that one bit. The Combaticon leader looked warily at their leader. Angered reprimands were good in comparison to when the Supreme Commander started thinking. His immediate rage caused bodily pain; his thought-tempered reactions caused worse for mind and body alike.

The Combaticons' unique situation and reprogramming were an abject demonstration of that fact.

"He has also shown a...commendable dedication to duty," Shockwave finished smoothly, if not a little smugly. "I had wished to acknowledge that dedication before commissioning him again. Receiving a disciplinary assignment may be considered a reward, of sorts. He seems to enjoy dealing with stubborn individuals. As his record shows, he has a history of taking command of troublesome troops, who then give subsequent officers far less trouble than prior to their stint under his command."

The warlord kept his thoughtful glare as he accepted the data packet Shockwave hastily put together describing the aforementioned officer's specs. The one-optic mech made sure to include descriptions of what aspects of his duty this officer had been so proficient at.

"While I do not doubt temporary removal of Bruticus from Earth will hamper progress," of course his tone held no doubt, why would he doubt, surely Onslaught believed every sincerity-oozing word Shockwave said, "the advantage gained from increased performance and cooperation will prove more beneficial in the long term. Not to mention that rewarding an outstanding officer will serve as an example for the ranks." For more than the officers, in fact. Rewards and punishments could be handed down from above in equal measure, which was a reminder the more rebellious soldiers needed. Shockwave's recommended action could be see either way: rewarding an officer, or punishing a soldier.

Megatron took some time to consider the files, slowly releasing the cannon half-crumpled in his grip as he thought. Onslaught straightened cautiously to stand at attention at his shoulder, not stupid enough to dare leave without permission. The Combaticon leader flexed his armament a few times, testing the damage, and eyed the screen with scant favor. Shockwave looked blankly back. He knew Onslaught wasn't buying the innocent act, but what could the Combaticon do right now? Protest that it was his right to discipline Vortex when he'd manifestly failed to do so?

Onslaught could respect the strategy behind the powerplay, even if he was on the losing side. Even with the mask in place, Shockwave could read a grudging respect off his expression. Both subcommanders knew just who'd won today. It was only a question of how Megatron acknowledged the victor.

Shockwave couldn't see Megatron's expression as his lord turned around, but the Combaticon now facing him certainly could. Apprehension lit the mecha's visor bright red, and Shockwave couldn't help but lean forward just a bit in anticipation.

"Commendable indeed," Megatron said with a dry laugh.

Rewards and outstanding officers; rebellious grunts and their well-deserved punishments.

Onslaught's sudden flinch was such a sweet reward.

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**0 0 **_**The Booty (Bibliotecaria_D speaks)**_** 0 0**

DEAR HOLY PRIMUS IT'S SO NICE TO ONLY HAVE TO EDIT. And kick the author into writing, but mostly just editing. [/leaves responsibility to Shibara]

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	3. Chapter 3

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**0 0 ****Part Three**** 0 0**

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Vortex realized they had arrived at their destination when the lack of noise and engine vibrations woke him from recharge. They'd been his constant companions since this trip had started, and the sudden change woke him. Pressed as he was to the cargo hold's back wall, the shuttle thrusters felt quite powerful when thrumming directly into his rotor hub. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling - Blast Off would cater to his whims if coaxed sufficiently - and one he could have enjoyed if he hadn't been all but stapled to the wall. Not being able to move wasn't sexy, in his opinion. Three whole days of not being able to move had amped it from a mere nuisance to downright annoying.

Astrotrain had built-in cargo strapping back here. Between those and the glue on his rotor blades, he wasn't going anywhere until someone took him down. It wasn't a novel method of restraint by any means, considering the fact that the Constructicons had used his own glue gun to stick him to the wall, but he was looking forward to someone tearing his rotor blades loose. He hoped it hurt. Now _that_ would be sexy.

He squirmed in his restraints, trying to catch a glimpse of where they'd landed through the open hatch, but the Constructicons had been thorough. The straps tied him to the wall firmly, and he couldn't bend against his rotor hub enough to see more than a sliver of the outside world. Also, the triple-changer's cargo bay was full of enormous boxes that blocked his view further. Vortex had no idea what they were, but the fact that they were made of cardboard meant they had come from Earth, too. What the frag could be worth shipping off that miserable planet?

"Are we there yet?" he called, only half-joking now. He'd kept up a steady litany of jokes and filthy innuendo for the first day in transit, including an intentionally whiny rendition of a small human grub (child, kitten, larval thing, or whatever the tiny ones that made the best hostages were called) on a long car trip. It seemed to be a popular joke on Earth television. Vortex hadn't ever thought to try it himself until he'd seen his first human sitcom. It hadn't worked very well; Blast Off had just given him a count-down until arrival, and Onslaught had approved forcibly ejecting him if he tried it while in transit with anyone else.

Since he'd been quite literally stuck with Astrotrain, he'd given it another try. It'd been another disappointment. Astrotrain had ignored him. Of course, a sickeningly detailed monologue on how to vivisect a shuttleformer had gotten no reaction as well, so the triple-change had likely not been listening to anything in the cargo hold.

Soon enough, a number of drones boarded and started unloading the boxes. By the looks of it, they were carrying them into the large building near where they had landed. Gravity made it seem like they'd landed, anyway, and that looks more like the exterior of a building than anything to be seen inside an orbital station. The narrow sliver of outdoors not blocked by the walls looked planetary. That looked vaguely sky-ish, up there. He couldn't really _see_, however, and not knowing bothered him.

Vortex felt the pang of anxiety he tried not to think about deepen. He didn't like admitting to any sort of weakness, but gestalt-related issues were the kind of weakness he was still adjusting to. Relying on other mechs was disquieting emotionally, however much fun he had manipulating such bonds in his victims during interrogations. Being coded and rebuilt for spark-deep bonds of emotion and mind made him want to purge his tanks if he thought about it too much. He was not a mech forged for dependency, and here he was trapped into a combiner team. Trapped, and worse yet, _getting used to it._ He'd gone from wanting to drop Swindle into a smelter for fun, to wanting to drop Swindle into a smelter because, slaggit, the little bastard had sold him for parts and that just wasn't - wasn't -

Oh, for frag's sake. It wasn't nice, okay? He hadn't expected it and couldn't defend himself from it, because at some point, he'd stopped being able to think about his teammates like he did other mechs. And, yes, if he dropped Swindle into a smelter, he'd immediately fish the slagging sonnuvaglitch back out before he melted. Well, before there was permanent damage.

Now here he was, separated from his gestaltmates, and he was getting anxiety pangs about it. He couldn't stop them, and he couldn't get rid of the emotional ties causing them. The gestalt rebuild had mainlined the bond straight into his spark and his mind. He hated that nagging fact, but that didn't stop it from _being_ a fact. The gestalt code had wormed inside his core programming so deep that it'd made Vortex - the notorious interrogator, the cold killer for fun and murderer of any ally no longer useful - into someone who depended on four other mechs. A lot. To the point where he was wondering (_not_ worrying, _never_ worrying, he wasn't _that_ weak) how they were dealing with his absence after three days.

He'd been gone much longer than that. Onslaught had informed him he was to spend the rest of his incarceration somewhere off-world, and it was non-negotiable because those were Megatron's orders, not Onslaught's. Vortex knew that because there'd been a tight, angry tension over the closed gestalt-bond. His team leader's voice had held that peculiar tone he associated with forced obedience. That meant that, A) Megs was really pissed this time, and B) incarceration was probably going to be longer and more unpleasant than anticipated. Possibly, C) Onslaught was going to take his humiliated, involuntary submission out on the helicopter later.

It gave him something to look forward to for when he eventually returned from...wherever he'd been sent.

Relocation of offenders wasn't a terribly rare punishment, especially for combiner mecha who suffered the lack of contact with their gestaltmates. Bonecrusher usually got sent to the outpost in Siberia whenever he started a fight. It was freezing cold, the roads were awful, and mecha posted there were under strict orders to avoid attracting Autobot or native attention. That meant no flying, no 'playing' with the local humans, and no exterminating the outpost's persistent bear infestation. Boredom and bears were close friends when mecha got assigned to Siberia. There was only so much fun to be had on the Internet. Depending on the situation on Earth, Bonecrusher would be stuck there to rot anywhere from a week to six months, or until the other Constructicons persuaded Megatron to pardon their most violent member.

The Stunticons, on the other hand, just got sent to separate rooms like bad children. The odd part was that it actually seemed to work. Drag Strip and Wildrider would beat on their doors and wail if separated too long, which sounded ridiculous and was fragging hilarious whenever Vortex got put on guard duty in the Stunticon common room.

"Can I come out yet?"

"No."

"Now?!"

"Nope."

"When?"

"Never. Megatron called. You're on permanent lockdown."

"Motormasteeeeeeeeer!"

So, yes, various degrees of separation were used when disciplining the combiner teams. It wasn't a special punishment. What _was_ special was how Vortex didn't recognize this particular facility. That _was_ strange. He had been, at one point or another, in pretty much every Decepticon Detention Centre, brig, and dungeon out there, as either a guard, interrogator, or prisoner. Yet he was getting completely unfamiliar atmospheric readouts from the air outside. The sky was a color he didn't recognize. Even the walls he could see didn't look familiar.

His thoughts cut off when the drones finished unloading the last box. Vortex had asked Astrotrain several times what was in them, but the mech had refused to answer. Vortex was fairly sure the triple-changer hadn't kept his cargo-hold speakers on during the trip. If he'd spoken to Blast Off about previous experiences transporting the 'copter, he probably hadn't. Even restrained, Vortex wasn't an easy passenger. The plethora of irritating questions and nauseating descriptions had broken many mecha trapped in small spaces with him before this.

A pair of heavy-duty drones approached the restrained mecha and started untangling the wall straps. Vortex contemplated struggling, but a data-stick suddenly plugged into one of his arm ports. The sedation program on it turned whatever ideas he might have had into black static as he was forced into recharge.

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	4. Chapter 4

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**0 0 ****Part Four**** 0 0**

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Vortex next wake-up call was far less gentle. His systems booted him into complete disorientation: gyros spinning out of control, visor registering nothing but blurred movement, and audios overwhelmed with a cacophony all around. Everything was confused chaos. As soon as his optics reset and started to focus, there was another lurch that sent everything spinning again. The thumping movement seemed to engulf him whole, flopping him along as an unidentifiable crackling sound accompanied every drunken heave. He hadn't felt this disoriented since Swindle conned him into transporting an entire auxiliary tank full of high grade. The rusted thing must have come from the world's lowest bidder in tank production; it'd promptly sprung a leak as soon as it'd been installed, sending him absolutely reeling through the sky as his primary fuel tanks ran pure distill through his lines.

This felt like that experience, only with less giggly overcharged flying. Hopefully less fiery crashing and monumental system hangover, too. Although he might feel better after hitting solid ground. Ground generally stayed still. Not the ground he was currently on, but most ground.

Blurgh, everything kept _moving_…

He was resetting his visor for the third time, groaning softly, when it stopped. The sound, the pushing flops: all of it stopped. He was still not-flying-home-tonight dizzy, but the sudden respite of movement gave his processor just enough time to finish analyzing the information his sensors were taking in. His proximity sensors were giving him odd information that made him think they were being blocked. His visor reset, clearing the cache and reactivating the optical sensors to bring in fresh input. Hopefully, their input would make more sense this go round.

His visor narrowed and quickly blinked through another reset, focusing. There was a wide expanse of floor stretched out in front of him, which made sense. He seemed to have been rolling across it. Or rather, more accurately, he had been _rolled_ by someone or something. Hence the heaving motion as he'd been turned over and over.

The surround-sound noise resolved slowly into less overwhelming input as he sorted through sensor feedback. His audios dialed back and registered the dull _thudd_ing roar as much more reasonable rustling _crackle_ sound. Some adjustments on playback indicated that the _whoomp _of impact as he'd been rolled had been the main noisemaker. The crackling sound was being produced by the material he had been rolled onto, which was now wrapped around him. To an annoying degree, now that he had recovered enough to give an experimental wriggle. It was some kind of blanket, made of a plastic polymer with multiple small air chambers on one side, and he was completely _covered_ in it from below his feet to just below his visor.

That explained the proximity sensor issues. They were indeed being blocked, for the most part. Except for the few transmitters and receptors on the top half of his helm, experimental pings from his sensors were immediately bouncing off the inside of the plastic. It was making him feel extremely muffled. The fact that he couldn't move only made the sensation worse.

His wriggling got him nowhere, but it did make him aware of a peculiar change to his rotor hub. Had his - ? They had. His rotor blades had been manually unlocked from his vertical mast and folded down to lay in a line down his back. Seriously, who did that to a fixed-position rotary mech? How _rude_. And the sensors on the ends were rubbing against yet more plastic instead of shuffling against themselves, so they must have been individually wrapped in layers of this plastic stuff before he'd been rolled along like artillery ordnance being prepared for shipping. Fraggit, if someone was going to molest him, Vortex preferred to be awake for it!

The plastic blanket-thing became momentarily unimportant when a pair of feet came into view. He heard them coming first, stepping across the floor from somewhere in the vicinity of behind his knees, but the way he'd been wrapped stopped him from turning his head to look. They took their time, striding slowly up the length of his back until they came around his head into sight. The feet stopped before him, and he once again engaged in a futile attempt to move against the plastic enough to look up. The angle was wrong, however, and he couldn't quite make out who it was standing before him.

He could tell that the mecha was huge. Tank treads were nothing to call HQ about - Brawl _was _part of his gestalt - but those looked like flight stabilizers up behind the treads. Either this mecha was a flying tank, which was a funny mental image and probably flew like a lead brick, or he was dealing with another triple-changer like Blitzwing. The feet and treads were on the right size-scale.

"Hello?" Vortex ventured when there were only more plastic crackles. There was a subtle tightening across his chest as the last layer of bubbly blanket-wrap was pulled taunt.

His wary conversational opener was met with another tug on the plastic. "Finally!" the mecha answered, rich voice huffing in amused disdain. Plastic rustled some more, and what sounded like the ragged tear of tape being cut came from out of Vortex's limited field of vision. There was a muffled push of pressure somewhere near his shoulder that was likely the plastic blanket-thing being secured. More tape tore. He was apparently being sealed into this thing. As the mecha worked, that voice continued, "I was beginning to think you were going to recharge forever."

A pair of large hands passed briefly in front of his visor, and Vortex found himself lifted effortlessly to a vertical position. The plastic bubbles squeaked protest as the blanket-thing took his weight, and those hands held him steady until the plastic finished compressing down. When the creaking crackles ceased, his feet still couldn't touch the floor. The hands gave a small, testing shove that barely budged him. It seemed that it'd take far more force to knock Vortex off his brand new plastic display base.

'_Triple-changer huge,' _the Combaticon confirmed to himself, just barely catching a glimpse of the mecha's face since he wasn't able to tip his own head back against the layers of plastic. The unknown mecha towered above him by several meters, and his build looked much heavier than the usual Decepticon grunt's frametype. Those looked like gun hatches in his midriff, and there was enough altmode kibble that he thought the mecha was definitely a triple-changer of some sort. Probably an officer of some kind, if the haughty smirk was anything to go by.

And...wow, those were quite the distinctive set of lips. They were a large and personable facial feature made even more absurd when set against the monstrous machinery of a triple-changer probably capable of wiping out entire outposts. Vortex found the contrast rather attractive. If this was the mecha who'd done things to his rotor blades while he'd been out, he could live with that. Was this the prison warden? Was this a prison? Oh, please tell him that this mecha was going to try playing prison power games with him. Oh, please. He wanted to see those pouty lips twist through the gamut of frustration and hate Vortex brought out in those who tried to outplay the ultimate mindfrag player he was. The warden probably thought he was fully prepared and briefed to deal with the Combaticon, and that was _never_ the case.

The mecha slowly walked around him, looking him up and down, as if measuring... something. Vortex followed the movement as far as he could from the corner of his visor, keeping his helm still. He couldn't move it much to begin with, what with the blanket-thing wrapped well past his chin, but trying to follow the mystery mecha's movement indicated curiosity and grasping after a tiny bit of control. Vortex knew why he was being studied, and how to frustrate that little mindgame.

The 'copter wriggled again, testing the pliancy of the plastic material, and found it didn't give an inch. Either the stuff was much harder than it looked, or he was wrapped in too many layers. From the crinkling sounds and multiple stacks of air bubbles he could see from the bottom of his field of vision, his vote was for the layers. So many fragging layers. He couldn't get a real good look at the bubbly blanket, but the more he tried to move, the more restrictive he discovered it to be.

It took a while to figure out what he was feeling and map it out in terms of how he'd been restrained. There were layers wrapped separately around his limbs and then around his body, keeping his arms pressed closed to his body but separated by many cushiony layers of plastic. His legs couldn't touch each other for the plastic surrounding them, for all that they were bound together by yet more layers around them. He couldn't bend his knees at all, much less flex his ankle joints. Plastic bubble blanket-stuff lovingly cocooning each of his rotor blades under the layers he'd been rolled in at the end, and his chest, arms, and rotor hub had so many layers wound about them that he couldn't do more than twitch his shoulders. His fingers had been individually wrapped before his hands, then arms, then body had been trussed into a neat package of helpless helicopter.

He could barely wiggle his fingers. That was all the movement he could get. His feet couldn't touch the ground. His neck was wrapped so tight that he couldn't do more than tilt his head a bit. He was just...suspended inside a giant tube of air bubbles and plastic strong and big enough to stand up on its own.

Vortex decided the movement restriction was decidedly uncomfortable, but it was quite interesting nonetheless for novelty's sake. He'd never tried confinement like this on someone before, much less tried it himself. He could see how it could be effective in some of the higher-strung airframes, but he didn't _need_ open air like Seekers did. This restraint method might break someone who was claustrophobic, and he filed that little fact away for use later.

With that pro, however, he filed his observations on the cons. Where had this mecha gotten all the plastic bubble-blanket? It would need to be specially manufactured if Vortex couldn't find his source. Unless this was what had been shipped from Earth in the cardboard boxes? But that meant the plastic was likely the low-quality stuff the humans produced. He couldn't see that being very useful. Procuring it himself would be easy, what with Swindle being a fellow Combaticon, but human-made plastic was so weak. It had such a low melting point that it'd be practically useless unless he wanted to mire someone in sticky melted plastic as a prank.

In fact, it was more than a bit odd that the stifling plastic blanket tightly constraining him wasn't creating a temperature problem right now. His body heat might not have created a problem while his systems had been idling in recharge, but now he was awake. His systems were more active, and he couldn't bleed off the excess heat through air circulation as his body usually did. His vents were all bound closed, hitting the plastic in pathetic little _flop-flop_s as he tried to order them open. He had to order it, too, because his ventilation system insisted it didn't need to run at the moment. Air intake from his mask-hidden mouth was apparently supplying enough circulation for necessary functions, and his coolant was handling the rest easily. His temperature gauge, weirdly enough, actually registered _below_ what it'd been onboard Astrotrain.

That was utterly ridiculous. Muffled up to his visor, Vortex would have said it was impossible. This was a puzzle, and that realization morphed his confusion into excitement. Bound in new and bizarre ways in a facility he'd never seen, at the mercy of an unknown Decepticon officer? Sign him up for some of that!

"Should I know you?" he asked brightly on the triple-changer's third turn around him. Time to move this game up to the next level. The pacing stopped, leaving his host looking at him from the side. The giant mecha subtly stepped further around, just far enough to the left so that Vortex had to turn his helm the best he could against the plastic to see him. Nice little bit of powerplay there, making the captive's helpless state perfectly clear. Vortex applauded on the inside.

"My name is Overlord," the mecha introduced himself, lofty manners implying rude things about what he thought of the smaller Decepticon. "And yours is Vortex. I've been asked by Lord Megatron to, hmm, **deal**with a minor irritant. Namely, you. It seems that the Decepticon forces on Earth need a break from the likes of you." He circled around Vortex one more time, taking his time until he came up on the Combaticon's other side. "I was told you were...problematic, Vortex," Overlord said, making the statement a question.

Vortex watched his captor's spectacular lips purse slightly, fascinated. They conveyed emotion so broadly the signals actually became harder to read! He couldn't quite tell if Overlord's facial expression was supposed to convey distaste or something else, and the bright glitter of the mecha's optics muddled things further. Everything was at odds with his bored drawl. This was becoming more exciting by the minute, but probably not in the way this Overlord mecha intended.

"Problematic? I have no idea what you are talking about," Vortex chirped, cheerfully obnoxious. "I don't even know why I'm here...errr, can I have your designation again?"

He had assumed the tall mecha would tense and bristle in anger at the obvious lack of respect, but the plush lips curved in a smile. Not that easy to bait; Vortex made a mental note. He'd find the right buttons to push to irritate his host/prison warden yet. "Overlord, as I just said." The other Decepticon's bored tone took on an amused tint. "So, Vortex. You would have me believe that you have no knowledge of why you are here. You are as innocent as a newspark. Am I to assume there has been a mistake? Should I call the Earth base, on your behalf?"

The 'copter widened his visor and gave his most earnest expression of confusion. "You really should," he said, just a poor mecha in distress. Why was this terrible plastic being inflicted on him? Woe was Vortex! "These things happen all the time. One moment you're peacefully recharging in your berth, and then **wham!** Someone mis-files your designation and off you go, sent to a base in the aft end of nowhere to suffer in place of someone else."

"Oh, such a thing would be terrible, would it not?" The sweet, insincere smile looked totally out of place on the face of this Decepticon. Vortex wanted to see him scowl. A scowl would fit him much better, he could tell. The amusement did suddenly drop, which was an improvement. "Although I am fairly certain we're both aware there has been no mistake this time," Overlord said tersely.

They were both toying with each other. Overlord had been simply indulging his innocent act for a moment, perhaps getting a feel for how the Combaticon played the game. Vortex knew what was happening, just like he knew why he was there. This was the same delicious foreplay he engaged in with his own interrogation subjects. It was the lazy, artificial chatter to measure how the other mecha reacted. Prodding with words always came before prodding with other things, and wasn't this exciting, to finally be on the other side of the table? He was certainly looking forward to seeing just what this arrogant aft had in store for him. So far, it only seemed to involve an extremely wasteful restraint method.

And leaving him alone. Overlord gave him a mocking half-bow before turning to leave, pointedly leaving the door unlocked as he went. The showy exit got a smirk behind the Combaticon's mask. Vortex knew the waiting game. Anticipation of torture and interrogation worked on a subject's mind even before the main event began.

This game? How unoriginal. He knew how to play this old game.

So he waited.

...for days.

Days and days.

The length of time, if nothing else, was sort of refreshingly different. That didn't make waiting any more exciting.

Primus, he was so very bored.

His chronometer had been deactivated along with his weapons systems, but that was standard incarceration lock-down. Vortex was used to that. More surprising was how his ventilation system refused to respond, still insisting he was cool enough despite the insulating layers of plastic. That continued to be strange. Also, his fuel and fluid gauges had been turned off. Someone didn't want him to measure time by his system reservoir status readouts. Clever, if annoying.

Most surprising of all, however, was how someone had cut off access to certain applications. He hadn't been _hacked_. That was one of the things his watchdog programs stayed online to deal with even when he was knocked out, and those programs hadn't been tampered with. He wasn't too concerned about being hacked by his own side, but he kind of anticipated being hacked by Autobots. As a high-ranking interrogator, he had firewalled databanks under official Decepticon High Command protection. Anyone who got through the first layer would come up against a _'Do Not Touch'_ order and seal. It would get progressively nastier from there if the hacker persisted, but no prison warden would be foolish enough to disobey that warning without direct orders from Megatron. Autobot interrogators, on the other hand, kept trying. He was hoping for a repeat of the drooling shell of a mech that'd been left after one memorable attempt to crack him.

That was neither here nor now, however pleasant the memory was. It kept him entertained for a brief minute, but the distraction passed too quickly. He'd gone through his best memories already, replaying them until they wore old. He'd contemplated revenge, but even that got dull after the four hundredth imagined scream. No, Vortex was bored out of his plating, and what had been cut off from him was the one thing he really wanted. It was stupid and silly and - and - slaggit. Normally he hated it, but after far, far too long with nothing to look at but walls and nothing to do but futilely squirm?

Right now he was desperate for anything that could distract him, even that annoying Microsoft game application suite Starscream had installed in the Combaticons out of some twisted form of sadism. Vortex would have laid odds that nothing but a direct shot to the cortex could get rid of that application suite, since that was about all his team hadn't tried yet. Blast Off had been convinced he'd gotten rid of it once, only to merge into Bruticus and get the whole fragging set of games re-installed via a gestalt hardline download. Watching the shuttleformer have a mental breakdown on the battlefield because of Solitaire hadn't been pretty.

Vortex would kill for a game of Minesweeper right now. Or, Primus save him from addictive, time-wasting games - Free Cell! At least trying to beat Blast Off's high score would give him _something_ to do. Something, _anything_, but waiting here like a plastic-wrapped package refused upon delivery.

The slaghead who'd greeted him the first day hadn't so much as glanced at him since. Vortex had held out for days, or what he roughly estimated to be days. Days-ish. Possibly. Between his deactivated chronometer and the unchanging room he was in, time blurred badly. He had called for the other Decepticon loudly when he tired of waiting. Then named him a variety of things, organic and inorganic. He moved on to singing lewd bar songs from Cybertron and Michael Jackson's greatest hits, but nothing happened whatsoever. The lighting never changed. His gauges continued to tell him nothing.

He knew about the waiting game, but there was a difference between waiting and being forgotten in an out-of-the-way room somewhere. This was beginning to feel like the latter. This obviously wasn't a prison, unless prisons typically had otherwise normal rooms dedicated to nothing but isolating difficult prisoners. The door was unlocked, but closed. He knew the door wasn't soundproof because he could hear the drones who tended him, but he never heard anything else. There was just no one else around to hear. Unless the triple-changer walked like Ravage, that meant he hadn't even gone near Vortex's position since trapping him here.

Isolation, despite how Vortex didn't want to admit it, was becoming a more effective strategy by the day. Boredom and inactivity wouldn't break him, but it was uniquely frustrating in a way he hadn't anticipated. That'd been interesting for approximately a minute and half of introspection, and then he'd gone back to trying to _do_ something.

He had tried to tumble himself to the ground, but the restraints robbed him of the ability to move. The tube-roll of bubbly plastic blanket-stuff was surprisingly effective. His rotor hub _whirr_ed sadly, unable to do more than twitch, and he couldn't even turn his arms against the layers of wrapping. The best he could achieve was an extremely lame wiggling inside his swaddling. His actuators were going to seize up from inactivity. His joints ached a little at first, but when the most he could do was jitter the tensile cables, they settled into a disconnected sort of numbness. It was rather unsettling, because sometimes it felt like parts of him were no longer attached.

The helicopter eventually got so bored he tried sweet-talking the drones that fueled him. It was an absolutely pointless thing. "Soooo, come here often?" said suggestively to a machine came out pathetic even to his own audios.

They weren't even semi-sentient robots. They came at erratic times and injected him with an unknown quantity of fuel every time. They didn't respond to verbal commands, at least as far as he'd been able to tell. He'd tried every combination of passcode and command he could think of, and several positions that logic said were fictional unless the drones had better

joints than he did. Unfortunately, even trying to dream up new command codes and crude orders could only keep him occupied for so long.

The drones came at intervals he _thought_ were spaced out to keep him from predicting their arrivals or use their schedule to keep track of time, but for all he knew, they were strictly on a timed schedule. The unchanging blank room kept him from knowing just how long he'd been kept here, much less how much time passed between fuelings. He counted how many times they'd fueled him, and he thought it'd been fifteen days. Maybe.

He realized on the (maybe?) tenth day that he was impatiently looking forward to his next fueling. The drones were just programmed to stick a needle in the correct neck tubing, sliding through a hole punctured through the plastic, but the copter had reached a level of boredom where that was the perk of his day. It gave him a chance to at least speak _at_ someone - or some_thing_, anyway. Inventing a new obscenity to shout became his goal, since there was nothing else to do.

Also, it was getting cold. Not the room itself, but his body. He needed to find out why that was happening. His body temperature had remained level since Overlord had left him, but every couple of fuelings, the temperature gauge dropped a few degrees before stabilizing again. It didn't seem possible, since his external reader didn't vary. Even covered by plastic - which should have been keeping system-generated heat _in_, by all laws of physics - his external temperature gauge seemed to be working correctly. A steady cooling over a long period of time could have been attributed to, perhaps, his systems adjusting to the situation by shutting down auxiliary functions. That wasn't good news, but it made _sense_. This business of stabilizing, dropping, and stabilizing again was neither natural nor healthy.

If it wasn't the room's temperature changing, that meant it was his body that was sporadically cooling. That wasn't alarming _at all._

Vortex started yelling questions at the drones. They still didn't react.

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	5. Chapter 5

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**0 0 ****Part Five**** 0 0**

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Far below the isolated room he'd prepared for his little guest, Overlord sat in the comfortable seat Shockwave had personally sent him. In return for agreeing to deal with Megatron's miscreant, he'd gotten quite a few portable luxuries: the seat, a selection of datapads brimming with the best of Cybertron's entertainment media, and his choice of placement in the upcoming invasion. This was, after all, something of a reward for the Decepticon officer, even if most mecha would regard banishment to an abandoned outpost station as exile, not a gift.

Not Overlord. Other Cybertronians were potential pleasure for him, but most didn't share his...tastes. A base full of Decepticons would have been amusing chattel at best, not company. Some time to relax alone was truly a reward, especially when the vacation was accompanied by small tokens of acknowledgement for a job well done and a present tagged, "Refurbish and return upon completion."

No instructions. No limitations. Just a disciplinary file the length of his arm and a personnel file that read like an Autobot nightmare.

How perfect. He did like a challenge.

Overlord rolled his head to the side and gazed lazily at the console screen from across the room. The rotary seemed to be talking to the drones again. The video feed had no audio, but he could tell by the minute movements of the Combaticon's helm that the mecha was saying something. Shouting insults or demands, in all likelihood.

'_Hmmm. A week more_,' he thought, and went back to reading. He was in no hurry. Overlord: artist of pain and gardener of manipulation. Every artist knew time had no factor when a project was in the making. Rushing the growth of these particular seeds of discipline would only stunt the harvest.

He hummed thoughtfully. He liked those analogies. What Vortex's opinion on them was, well, neither gardeners nor artists asked what their raw materials felt about being changed.

That wasn't to say he wouldn't enjoy reminding the Combaticon of the beginning phases once they finished. That would be _exquisite._

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	6. Chapter 6

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**0 0 Part Six 0 0**

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Vortex's recharge periods had started to increase. With the absolute lack of external input and his steadily dropping internal temperature, his systems had apparently decided that, hey, since there was nothing better to do, they might as well spend longer times in recharge. He talked to himself or the drones; he played bad Earth pop songs over his internal speakers; he relived his memories ad nauseum. And then he slept.

It was either that or spend more time staring at the wall. With such excitement to look forward to, was it any wonder his booting sequences had become increasingly more sluggish as time passed?

In fact, his schedule was so bursting with activity that he nearly slept through something actually happening. When he onlined to Overlord standing mere meters from him, Vortex stared mutely at him for a few minutes until his processor finally caught up to what he was seeing.

"Oh. It's you again. Hello, you. I thought you'd gone out on holiday or something," Vortex rasped, his voice hoarse with lack of use. He coughed static through his vocalizer to clear the interference. His vocalizer complained, citing a hardware error. "So, are you going to do something, or am I supposed to just wait for an entire vorn until you decide to come back from whatever hole you crawled into since - "

His vocalizer interrupted itself, an involuntary system override _click_ing when the taller Decepticon sighed and turned around to head back toward the door. An unknown software error warning cut off the sass before Vortex even realized he'd shut up. Code deeper than mere system programming _ached_ like he'd been punched open and gutted, internal mechanisms suddenly missing. He abruptly felt empty, like his own body, his own _company_, were no longer enough to support vital functions.

His shoulders strained, trying to reach out after Overlord even as gestalt links tried frantically to activate. They led into nothing but faint impressions of his teammates, and that somehow made the ache worse. There wasn't even the least feeling that they were reaching toward him in return. The gestalt-bond felt numb, hanging off his spark like a cold parasite that leeched him of strength, and something deep in the back of his mind _twisted_.

Vortex had been forgotten. He was isolated and forgotten and -

No. He couldn't take it, but - no. The direction the frantic need was dragging his thoughts hit him with near-physical force, and need slammed up against dumbfounded admiration. The Combaticon marveled at the way isolation had snuck his innate gestalt weakness up inside him. It'd never been an issue before, so he hadn't thought to worry about what the solitary confinement was doing to him.

Now he was aware, however, and stubborn refusal powered past the abandonment issues. He'd find a way to deal with it later.

His vocalizer crackled before clearing. "Wait. **Wait!**"

The tall Decepticon officer paused at the threshold, glancing at him with every plate on his frame drawling, '_You are boring my royal self.'_

Frag and rust if that mecha's mouth wasn't mesmerizing. Vortex stared at it greedily, storing it in his memory to imagine defiling in every way possible later. He'd get days of daydreaming out of an image-capture of those unbelievably plump lips, and, yes, he'd need the distraction.

Because he wasn't going to break this easily. The isolation had been a good plan, a clever ploy, but now he knew about it. It was tightening around his rotor hub, urging him to struggle after the triple-changer, but Vortex was onto him. It wouldn't work, now. But unless this mecha was weaker-willed than he thought, his version of letting the fragger know the plan had failed wasn't going to help matters any.

Well, no one had ever said that Vortex wasn't a stubborn glitch.

"Wait. I - I need to tell you this." The Combaticon sucked in a deep vent, as if bracing himself to confess the most important thing ever. "You are the worst host in the history of hosting," he said solemnly. "I'm not recommending this establishment to any of my friends."

There. He knew the fragger knew that he knew what was going on. Now Overlord knew it wasn't going to work, either. Vortex was looking forward to whatever got tried on him next. It probably wouldn't be _easy_, but that was part of the fun!

The other Decepticon's expression didn't change in the slightest as he left, still pointedly leaving the door unlocked. Starved-for-input audios strained to track a faint chuckle fading off into the distance. The distant clomp of heavy feet could be heard for about two minutes longer.

Vortex found himself alone once more.

After a while, a refueling drone came and went.

Then it came again. And went again. The waiting game, or was he a forgotten prisoner? No. No, he couldn't be that. He was a _Combaticon_. He wasn't a nobody; he was part of an important combiner team. Overlord wouldn't forget him, but apparently he played a patient game.

Before this, before the plastic bubble-blanket roll and his days inside it, Vortex could have regarded it as exactly that: a game. An unimaginative version of it, really, once his interest in the plastic stuff wore off. The tall triple-changer would have been his opponent, maybe even a worthy adversary, and Vortex would have looked forward to trying to mindfrag the mecha right back.

But his initial confidence was running up against something he hadn't anticipated. The waiting game had seemed bothersome but simple enough to power through once he knew what it was supposed to accomplish. Provoking Overlord had been meant to hustle the game along to a new phase, but the pouty-lipped officer had thicker plating than that. Fine. He'd been stubbornly certain that if Onslaught couldn't break him with beatings and stony silence, then some plastic and an empty room wouldn't be able to accomplish it, either. Overlord wasn't bound by spark and body to him for the rest of his existence, so what the frag could the mecha do in comparison, really?

There was a sinking, awful feeling building deep in his chassis the longer this went on, however. A feeling that Vortex might have been wrong. The boredom, inactivity, and sheer _time_ had triggered something the Combaticon didn't quite know how to handle. Something internal that left him confused and somehow spinning out of control.

This time, the waiting began to hurt. Not physically, not real pain that he could relish as _sensation_, but a swelling, dull growth of an absence. He _lacked_, and it ached in a way that he could only compare to hurting. Something deeper than code curled clawed fingers of yearning into his mind, crawling through his head in a search for input that wasn't being provided. It wasn't pain, but he wished it was. Pain was input. Primus, he _craved_ input so badly it lurched the fuel in his tanks if he thought about it too much.

He tried not to, because thinking about it reminded him of the last time he'd been unable to move, unable to _feel_, and he couldn't deal with that. He couldn't. He could tear apart Autobots for fun or information, he could fight opponents twice his size, but there were certain box-like things he just couldn't handle. He was a crazy glitch and fearsome interrogator, but a mere memory could bring him down.

Not that he didn't fight it. He constantly reminded himself of everything that was different. He'd been rolled up in plastic, not boxed in. Even if the room was shaped like a box, just on a larger scale, and -

No, starting over. Bad train of thought. Vortex couldn't think about that.

Differences, he had to think about differences. He could still feel his body, even if wiggling his fingers and tilting his head back and forth inside his cocoon was the best he could do. He could see. Sight was important. It might be another box, but at least he could see it. He had fuel moving through his tubes, miniscule as that movement was. He couldn't taste anything because the drones injected him with fuel instead of letting him drink it, but he dwelled the movement of his energon. Even the tiniest movement was more than he'd had…before.

The lack of physical stimulus left him nothing to do but think, however, and the comparing the differences inevitably led back to noting the similarities. Pleasant daydreams of elaborate revenge only tided him over for so long. Then it was back to trying not to think about The Box.

That horrible memory inevitably made him think about his spark, and then the dull, painless pressure _ached_ through him again. It was an itch he couldn't scratch. It was in his head and coiled around his spark.

It took far too long to identify what he was feeling, much less where it came from. The aching _yearning_ infused him from the struts out, pulling inward like it'd suck him inside-out with how much it _needed_, and he groaned when he figured out why it seemed so sourceless. When it came from everywhere, it was hard to tell where it started - except that it'd started everywhere. The gestalt program permeated his whole body and whirled in his spark.

The need for his gestalt, a psychological _compulsion_ installed below the level of system operations programs, couldn't be fulfilled. He needed the emotional links, he craved the spark-bonds, he itched for the smallest brush of physical contact, and the very _idea_ of combining had his struts trying to crawl out of his body to go join with his team.

Deprived of his team by distance, the painless, sucking void wanted anything. A substitute of any form would do, but Vortex needed that_something_ more than he needed energon. Continued denial of input, of physical contact and social interaction, carved shavings of willpower away like dull blade sawing the edges off his mind.

The helicopter could remember life before his spark and body had become part of a gestalt, but mecha couldn't stop being part of combiner teams once linked in. They had _tried_, fraggit. Blast Off spent as much time in orbit as he physically could, but the longer he spent away, the more he needed them when he returned, and not because he liked their company in any way, shape, or form. Swindle probably would sell body parts to get away from the other four mecha in the team. He'd certainly tried selling theirs, anyway. Brawl had interfaced his way through most of the Elite's ranks, only to return to Combaticon HQ frustrated, if physically sated.

Vortex had tried assassinating Onslaught. That hadn't worked out well for either of them, but it'd effectively ground in the point that they were stuck with each other. Stuck with the whole unit as a combiner team. They were Combaticons. They were no longer capable of being individuals.

Hence Vortex's problem now. He was a Combaticon, but he was alone. He was alone. He was so very alone.

That fact was breaking him. Breaking him open, scraping him clean, and leaving him hollow and throbbing with a desire so intense lust of any kind couldn't compare. Not that it wouldn't help plug the empty hole a little! Bloodlust, sexual lust, even just plain old material greed - he'd take it all, so long as there was someone else involved.

What he wouldn't give for a good hard rape right now. Come _on_. A mecha held completely helpless, and nobody coming to take advantage of him? What kind of Decepticon was Overlord, anyway?

…although it wouldn't be much of a rape if he interfaced his rapist blind with sheer enthusiasm, tried for a second and third round, and wanted the fragger to cuddle him afterward. Which was a weird thing for him to want any day, but the back of his head was drowning in need for touch, any kind of touch, even just someone to talk to if that's all he could get! Anything that'd trigger his sensors and provide some blasted_input_.

The drones kept coming and going. No matter how he tensed every time the door opened, just waiting for Overlord to return, the other Decepticon didn't. Only drones, energon, and needles came through that door. His sense of isolation deepened. The maddening, unscratchable itch of deprivation got worse. And absolutely nothing continued to happen.

By the tenth time the fuelling cycle repeated, Vortex shut up. Part of his processor told him talking to himself and playing music was a perfectly acceptable waste of time since there was nothing better to do. That same part of his processor felt compelled to try and fill the silence with noise.

He dreaded the eerie silence in which the drones moved, because their noiseless functions reminded him that _nothing_ made noise in this fragging place. He replayed his memories and murmured along with past conversations. His small interior speakers screeched feedback as he amped them as high as they would go; the music and victims' screams he played still couldn't push back the silence in the room, especially muffled as they were by all the plastic wrapped around him. He grumbled insults at the drones, but everything he did, from talking to himself to singing or talking to the drones, just served to point out how far he was from any real contact. It didn't make the crawling _need_ subside, and it really only served to make him think about what he was trying to do.

He made himself stop.

He had found out through obsessive observation that there were three different drones. They were almost exactly the same, save for minuscule scrapes in their paint and a dent in one's side. Vortex hadn't even realized he'd memorized their tiny differences until he found himself calling them by name. When had he named them? Oh, well. Dent, Smudge and The Fragging Bastard - the latter one he remembered sarcastically naming, at least, after a sharp nick to a coolant tube in his throat - came one after each other on an irregular schedule. When they came in and how much fuel they gave him each time varied, but their rotation never changed. There wasn't even the smallest sliver of anticipation granted by the need to search out identifying markers each time; he already knew who was next in the schedule. He'd probably combust of excitement if the wrong one showed up.

His entire body had actually seized into trembling when he'd thought it'd happened once, but then he'd checked his self-repair queue and found there'd been a needle hole patched in his throat tubing while he'd been in recharge. The drones' schedule hadn't changed. He'd just started sleeping right through the tiny pain of the needle. The pitiful highlight of his existence at this point, and he'd slept through it. That was…somewhat alarming.

Vortex decided he had to stop talking to the drones after he started answering himself with different voices for each one. Especially when he absently started inventing epic backstories for how Dent had gotten its dent. That was too pathetic even for his admittedly low standards right now.

With the almost nonexistent entertainment of the drones out of the picture, he turned to cataloguing. He counted twenty-three panels in the wall to his left versus twenty-two on the right. The floor and roof both had three panels that he could see from his position, with seventy-eight bolts each. He recounted twice just to make sure, and a third time because it hadn't bored him yet. He couldn't move his head enough to see more of the room than that, but he scrutinized the dizzy first moments from when he'd onlined here. It was highly inaccurate trying to extrapolate the size of the room from the blurred memories, but it took him about an hour - he thought - to work out the math for how many panels were probably in the whole room, allowing change in measurements depending on how badly his memories were corrupted.

It was a short-lived mental exercise. There were only so many things that could be counted in a small room, and even less since Vortex couldn't move from where he'd been left. He tried to recall how large the building had seemed from the brief glimpse through Astrotrain's hatch, but even trying to calculate the number of panels and bolts needed to build a hypothetical base kept him occupied for less than a fueling cycle.

That left him with nothing to do but watch his temperature gauge and wait. Every few fueling cycles, his internal temperature would drop and stabilize at a slightly lower temperature. It didn't seem physically possible, but it kept happening. His ventilation system responded to his test pings by trying to open his vents against the plastic wrapped around him, but it went offline again as soon as he prodded it online. It insisted it wasn't needed, and internal logs showed that whatever was causing this bizarre temperature change seemed to be sourced from the inside. His coolant reservoir was mostly full, the pump's beating gradually petering out as his body stopped requiring cooling altogether. The entire cooling system sat unused because his body seemed to be entering hibernation as the chill deepened.

He was _cold_, so cold he _ached_ and getting _colder_, but his body refused to do anything about it. It was a trick of the mind that he felt so extremely cold; really, all that was happening was that he was slowly cooling toward room temperature. Which was a sign of something going terribly wrong. The temperature of his frame should have been high enough to melt the plastic blanket-thing wrapped around him, but the cold he dropped further into cycle by cycle kept that from happening. It was also keeping his frame from overheating in the claustrophobic hug of the plastic.

The pained ache, he realized eventually, came from his vital systems slowing down so much while he was still conscious. Supporting an online mind inside a body dropping toward machine stasis wasn't something that should happen. Medical stasis was induced no matter the condition of the mind or body. Machine stasis happened when a body was unable to continue functioning within operational parameters. If the mind didn't heed the warnings and error alerts, then it was pushed safely offline before the body shut itself down to conserve resources and hopefully last until help came.

Except that Vortex was still awake, and his subconscious kept prodding the stasis protocols in bewilderment. _Something_ was activating them, or perhaps the lack of external stimulus was causing so much strain on his gestalt code that there was an innate conflict. He didn't know. All he knew was that he was inside a body gradually shutting down around him, and that was a terrifying prospect. He fought it, consciously turning everything back on, but it was too little, too late. Most of the stasis protocols were sluggishly active already, and they slowed down system operations a tad bit more every time he lost focus. It was a self perpetuating cycle, too: his body was turning off, so it coaxed him to recharge more, but every time he slipped into sleep, his systems slowed that much more and didn't speed back up once he woke.

Eventually, he wasn't going to wake up. His body would enter stasis, and it would become his new spark-box.

Vortex desperately looked for anything to distract himself enough to stay awake, now. He'd thought being put back in The Box was the worst nightmare possible, but no. No, seeing it coming this way was truly frightening. He wasn't some weakling Autobot shellshocked from the frontlines, afraid to recharge because, boo hoo, the memory echoes would be scary. No, he was afraid to recharge because -

- he couldn't deal with this. He'd thought he could, but he couldn't.

The Combaticon scrabbled after any and every distraction he could, but Overlord had planned this little solitary confinement cell very well indeed. There were nothing but walls to stare at and drones to watch.

And the plastic.

Every time his helm reached the point where it was impossible to turn further - which wasn't very far at all - Vortex wondered once again about the plastic sheets wrapped around him. He could tell it was just plastic. If he was right about its origins, it was probably manufactured by humans. The blanket-stuff was poor grade plastic and small pockets of air, neither material tough enough to last a moment against him in any other situation. If he had the least bit of leverage, this cocoon-wrap would hold up all of two seconds against his fingers, but under the present circumstances? Strength meant nothing if mecha couldn't move enough to utilize it. Lack of leverage and multiple layers were proving plastic and air to be an exceptionally resistant full-body restraint.

Also, it made noises. Primus, it made noises. Vortex fastened onto that fact with the voracious hunger of a starved Morphobot. Input! Repetitive input, but any stimulation for his audios was a blessing at this point. Wonderful, beautiful, gloriously lovely input!

The minimal movements of his hands and shoulders made the plastic squeak and crackle, albeit so quietly he had to strain to hear. He kept doing it, because causing the tiny noises was the only outlet he had for his restlessness. Crackles and squeaks were the only thing he got to hear, and he tried to limit himself to only a few wriggles per fuel cycle as if he could ration the input, savoring the small noises to make them last.

That was exactly what he was doing, in fact. He didn't want to get bored. He was starting to rely on the tiny noises to keep his sensors stimulated. It was a pathetic influx of data to keep himself online with, but when his only other option was system-forced recharge, well, reliance was better than stasis.

As sparingly as he rationed out the sounds, however, they became too predictable. Background noise wasn't stimulus. His processors, despite how he fought it and tried to stingily dole out his movements, heard the sounds too often. The link between his own motions and the resulting noises was too strong. There was no anticipation, and his gestalt links examined the sound for any significance only to dismiss it. Without some form of social interaction, his gestalt coding was unsatisfied. Without an element of unpredictability, it had little use to his external sensors, either.

Except for changes in pitch or the occasional lesser-heard sounds, the plastic-squeaks were getting tuned out. Panic crept in instead. Trapped in this room, muffled up to the visor by plastic, he was running out of ways to fulfill the requirements to prevent his stasis protocols from activating completely!

But then one of Smudge's multiple arms came too close to him and pressed lightly on the plastic that was covering his chest. That changed_everything_.

He didn't know why the drone deviated from the routine, didn't know if it'd taken a step too close or if there was grit in its arm joints that prevented the arm from extending correctly. He didn't care why. All he cared was that it changed the angle of the fuel injector's needle. Vortex saw it coming as if in slow motion: the thin metal needle pressed in at a slightly different angle that caused it to miss the pre-made hole in the plastic wrapped around his neck.

Anticipation seized him out of nowhere, tensing his cables into strumming tightness. He could almost _feel_ the pressure build as his sensor network went from dormant to hypersensitive in two seconds flat. His audios dialed all the up until he heard - or perhaps just imagined himself hearing, but that was almost as good - the teensy _squeeeek_ as the sharp tip pushed on one of the plastic blanket-thing's air bubbles. His limbs shook inside their bindings, and the slow descent of his systems into stasis reversed so quickly rubber would have burnt if they had tires. New, this was new! It was a new sound and a new sensation, and he wanted to grab it and roll himself up in it and -

The needle pushed in, more and more, until it ruptured the taunt plastic surface.

The sharp _**POP**_ rebounded around the room, echoing off the unadorned metal walls, but it resonated so much more in the Combaticon's head. He had never assigned a particular value to inanimate sound effects, but after days and days of blank silence, any sound at all was a miracle. The crackles and squeaks had been his only companions for weeks, it seemed.

Hearing a sound that he hadn't made sent a delightful almost-sensation ripple of pseudo-pleasure shivering down his body. It ran down him from his audios in a cascade effect, resetting his almost-dormant sensor network all the way down to his feet. A bright surge of feeling backwashed up his body in return. He felt only plastic and stiffened joints, but it was better than the numbness that'd been creeping up his limbs as his network prepared to go into stasis.

It wasn't a physical touch, an actual moment of social interaction, but at this point he really wasn't that picky. His CPU fell on the split second of input and crammed the data into any open sensor slot available. The stasis protocols paused. They didn't shut down, but they didn't shut_him_ down. Right now, that was a win for him.

He grasped the brief reversal and tried to do run with it. He hadn't thought about bursting the little bubbles. Tearing the plastic, yes, of course, but that'd been a means of escape. Trying to coax another popping sound out of the blanket-thing was a different goal altogether. A terribly pathetic one, if he thought about it that way, but how much lower could he be brought? He couldn't escape, not unless something changed, but stasis wasn't something he could resign himself to. He had to fight it, and if dedicating himself to repeating a tiny noise was the only way, then that was what he'd do.

Creating another sound burst became his mission. He couldn't bend his fingers enough to get any pressure on the plastic between them; the same went for all his limbs and his rotors. He actually tried to catch a bit of the plastic by retracting and closing his battle mask, but the material was too smooth to catch with the swishing plates. His nasal ridge kept the bubbles out of reach of his teeth, no matter how he tried to twist his head inside the bindings. He could _almost_ lick the plastic wrapped around his head, but not quite. He tried every variation of head tilt and mask opening/closing he could, but there wasn't even a hint of friction to pinch the plastic. He gave up after a few more fueling cycles.

Vortex found himself hoping he would hear the sound again. Initially, he was disgusted with himself. It was a sound. A stupid little _pop_ noise that wouldn't even register with him under normal circumstances. Seriously, he felt vaguely ashamed of himself for how he'd leapt on the sound. It may have reactivated parts of him falling slowly into stasis, but that was because of its spontaneity. The novelty of hearing something different didn't stop what he was hearing from being just a - it was just a - he'd gotten himself keyed up over a -

It was so stupid he had trouble even thinking it through the wall of bafflement his protesting mind put up. A _plastic air bubble_ had saved him. If it were something of substance, like the sound of Blast Off's shuttle thrusters or Megatron's voice, well, he'd still detest straining his audios for it, but at least that kind of sound had significance behind it. What significance did an air pocket have?

Gradually, the disgust drained away as the stasis protocols began taking his sensor network and system functions offline again. Okay. Okay, so a tiny, insignificant bubble had kept him from falling into stasis. That was fine! Great! Wonderful, now _please do it again._ Hope became something more desperate as fear crept up to remind Vortex that he was not exempt from its icy gnawing. None of the Combaticons had ever been willing to talk about their waking nightmare time in The Boxes, but it was manifestly still preying on the back of their minds. He, too, was scared strutless by the idea of returning. Vortex had just compensated by actively seeking the most extreme physical sensations he could and being more than a little mentally unhinged.

Lacking any ability to combat old memories with new experience, that left him dwelling on what his body was dragging him right back into: The Box. Only this one was made of his own body and some plastic. The plastic that might save him. The plastic that was full of tiny air pockets that could make a tiny, bitty _pop_ noise that he was desperately, intensely longing for. He practically prayed for it. It was probably the only thing he actively looked forward to now when the drones came, because very, very rarely, one of them would lean that tiny extra fraction somewhere. Then all his attention fastened on the needle, mentally urging the angle to change even a fraction so he could - maybe, if he was lucky, if the needle angled enough - hear that noise again.

All that was left for him to do in that empty room was wait for the next air pocket to get punctured. Remember the Detention Centre and the spark-box, try to erase any and all comparisons between it and his current imprisonment from his thoughts, distract himself by composing an entire novel-length story of Dent's adventures as a drone, and wait for the next popping sound. Recharge kept smothering him, but he fought his body to stay awake, to keep his protocols at bay. The terror kept climbing for every minute of silence he had to endure.

Silence. More silence.

Every time a drone came and didn't cause a teensy noise became punishment. Cruel and unusual punishment that Vortex nearly whimpered under as the fuel was pushed into his tubing, the needle withdrew, and the drone left again. That meant more time alone with nothing to distract him, and no input to feed his starving sensors with.

Tick, tick downward went system status. Tick, tick upward went stasis protocols on his priority list.

Silence. Yet more silence. Endless silence.

_**POP.**_

Praise Primus and pass the ammunition, _yes!_ Yes, yes, yes! A pop, a wonderful pop! The 'copter all but did a little jig inside his restraints out of joy whenever he got lucky enough to hear that sound. The creeping tide of non-feeling conceded an inordinately small slice of territory back to his senses, system activity kicked back up a notch, and he gloried in the - rather flimsy victory. Over nothing, and not for long.

This was so pathetic.

But it beat sliding down into stasis, so he kept waiting for his pathetic nothing-triumph.

Silence. The drones came and punished him more often with it now. The bubbles around the hole had mostly been punctured by this time, and all of Vortex's limited squirming couldn't twist new bubbles into range. His droplet of salvation was drying up no matter how he grasped after it.

Into this, walked his captor.

Vortex's chronometer had been deactivated what seemed ages ago, but he estimated it must have been at least thirty days later when Overlord appeared again. Or maybe forty. He wasn't sure. Fifty? He didn't know anymore. What he _was_ sure of was that if the mecha left him alone in this blasted room again, he'd go into stasis-lock, because his processors would _melt_ from input starvation. Melt, dribble down his throat, and encase his spark in another box just like -

_Not thinking about that._

The towering Decepticon stepped into the room, and Vortex repeated his mind-numb mute staring routine. His processors took a few kliks to believe what his dulled sensors were telling him. By the time the footsteps reached the door and the door opened, he'd just begun actually hearing them as his audios sluggishly rebooted. The shape his optical sensors registered as a blurry form entering the room didn't belong to a drone, and his audios slowly caught the subdued mechanical noises of another mecha's body. The proximity pings that his few uncovered transmitters sent out were reporting a presence approaching on a different vector than the drones' programmed route.

He blinked his optical sensors through half a dozen reboots, forcing them to focus. There was something new to look at. Oh, something _new_. Some_one_ new, which was even better! Statis protocols on the verge of activating plunged down his priority cue as the gestalt-denied need for social interaction scrabbled on the inside of his head like a small, trapped technimal. It felt like chunks of his core programming were being gouged out by the fiercely sharp _need_ clawing at him.

It hit him so hard that he just stared at the triple-changer for another minute once his processor did catch up, drinking in the sight of something that wasn't this blank room. Those lips were worth some extra ogling time. Rust and iron, he could stare for ages at those lips.

Overlord looked back at him from just inside the door, an optical ridge raised as if waiting for something.

The painless aching desire for _interaction_ pounded Vortex into breaking the silence first, despite the part of him that knew it was what the triple-changer wanted. The mindfragging game wasn't his biggest concern at this moment, however much he hated losing anything.

The Combaticon spat a bit of static to start his under-used vocalizer as his visor flared a deep red. "Overlord." The croaked name sounded like both a greeting and an acknowledgement of defeat rolled into one word. Chalk one point up to the big-lipped spawn of a trash compactor: this had been a well-played instance of the waiting game. Vortex tried to firm his resolve to not break completely and put some defiance into his words, if not his static-filled voice. "What do you want?"

The hulking mecha had started walking towards him sedately, smiling imperceptibly at how Vortex had said his name, but he stopped at the question. Overlord looked at the rotary Decepticon, expression almost reflective as if he had to stop and ponder every ramification of the slurred words.

Vortex fought the rampant desire to speak again. He would not cave before machine urges! He had a mind, and it controlled his body - not the other way around! He was more than his combiner team, slag Starscream and his rebuilt body. Slag the bonds the flying scrap heap had forced on his spark, and slag the coding lodged so deeply in his head nothing would dig it out. It was craving his team so intensely he'd have hugged Swindle if he saw the fragger, but he would _not_ be so weak as to accept any substitute that walked in the room!

Yes, he wanted to see the miniscule facial shifts of someone _hearing_ him, _reacting_ to him, causing a reaction in him in turn. Just seeing someone sentient was causing his systems to practically pile on each other as they tried to come online all at once. Social interaction on the nonverbal level was still far more stimulation than he'd had in _ages_, and his nonverbal responses in return were firing his sensor network to twitching as stiff joints and dormant limbs tingled through preliminary test cycles. Yes, of course he wanted it. That didn't mean he had to chatter at Overlord in hopes of inducing verbal interaction. He was not. That. _Weak._

After a minute's thought, the officer shrugged just slightly as if to say, '_Well, I tried.'_ He turned to head back toward the door.

Vortex's tanks bottomed out. On second thought, he was that weak. He really was.

"Nonono**no**, wait! **Don't!**" Vortex rasped, trying to raise his voice as much as his still-booting vocalizer would let him. "Where are you going?!" Feedback shrilled, crackling electricity in his throat as his vocalizer tried to shut down, strained too soon and too much, but he forced it to stay online. "Stop stop **stop**, smelt you!"

That strangling code-compulsion _shrieked_, banging on the inside of his head so hard his vision fritzed. His spark rattled futilely in his chest, and hollow pits _ached_ where his sensors weren't picking up enough input to sustain him. His gestalt links fizzled so badly they transcended pain and took on a numb flare that gave his sensors absolutely nothing to work with. His vents hiccupped, making muffled flopping sounds against the plastic as they tried to open and close. He wasn't active enough to require his ventilation system to online. His coolant pumps were offline. He was almost room temperature. His body was a shell, and he could feel anything but the plastic smothering him further by the moment. It was a box, he was lowering down into The Box, and he couldn't deal with this, he _couldn't go through that again!_

He shut down his glitching visor and whined in distress. "Please..."

Every single reason he'd been clinging too in the fight against his statis protocols, against just breaking, relied on his known, measurable value to the Decepticons. He couldn't be locked away forever, not without the rest of the Combaticons being useless as a combiner team. Bruticus was a powerhouse gestalt tough enough to take out Megatron, which was a point that Vortex had been trying to concentrate on as a positive, not a negative. Now, however, his thoughts immediately reversed that point. Megatron had always been one for holding grudges, and the 'copter knew that he'd ticked the Supreme Commander off more and more every time he'd stirred trouble. Onslaught had tried every variation of beatings and incarceration to stop him from repeat offending, but Vortex just couldn't stop himself. Didn't want to stop himself, because he found such glee in causing chaos. Frustrating his commander was a side-benefit, to be honest.

Onslaught had never been able to reform him, because anything severe enough to make Vortex think twice would take him out of commission as a component of Bruticus. Take him out, and the combiner team was crippled. That'd been too high of a price, because Bruticus was too important to the war on Earth.

Until now, apparently. Vortex had just seen his value drop to nothing but an amusement. No, less than that: an irritant. This mecha obviously had no time constraints, given permission to take as long as he wished without care to the war efforts. He could and was going to leave the rotary mech wrapped in plastic bubble-stuff until there was only a stasis-locked body and helpless, terrorized mind left inside.

What was he worth, now?

Miserably convinced he'd see nothing but the door closing, he reset his visor again. He flinched inside his own armor, a garbled blurt of surprise escaping him because, instead of the door, a massive black hand filled his vision.

One of Overlord's extended fingers approached his visor. The tip of the digit hovered right in front of the top of his visor, stopping just short of actually touching him. The triple-changer's face was an undistinguished blur behind it as all of Vortex's attention fastened onto that fingertip.

It radiated heat. The air around the much larger Decepticon sucked heat from the mecha's body, and his vents liberally dispersing it into the room. The contrast in temperature bit like frost forming where it met Vortex. It wasn't that Overlord was so hot; Vortex's body had simply shut down that far. Sensation-starved sensors clamored, almost painfully registering the temperature difference where heated air currents brushed past his exposed helm. The pressure sensors under the glass of his visor teased on the very _edge_ of registering something. There weren't even many sensors present, but every one rocketed online and stood hyperaware, more than ready for duty.

The Combaticon was acutely aware of the tiny gap between his visor and the finger held before it, and he could just barely feel his own electromagnetic field brush against the warm, living energy field that enveloped Overlord's hand. That - ohhh. That, he didn't need a sensor-dense surface area to feel. That, his circuitry could absorb. That, his coding strained for. Body language cause and response, yes; verbal interaction, okay; physical stimulus?

Please. He hadn't had that in so long that something deep under his conscious mind screeched like a metallic beast that would consume him if that hand didn't move just a fraction closer and give it what it _needed_.

His neck instinctively leaned forward against the infernal plastic, trying to get closer to the source of heat and electricity and, oh Primus, he_needed_ the contact now or he'd go _mad_!

The foreign EM field flared, lapping in taunting wavelets against red glass coated in desperation. The 'coptor whined again, a sound more bestial than intelligent.

"What was that, Vortex?" Overlord asked in a languid drawl, moving his finger in a slow circle that the trapped mecha's head tried to follow.

Vortex stilled, cold realization knocking his inner needy creature temporarily down. Chill horror skimmed over his visor, and a soft chuckle answered it when that finger dipped just close enough to feel it - and to remind the 'copter what was at stake. The Combaticon knew what was being asked of him, and what the answer was.

A raw mouthful of rage stuck in his throat, clogging his intake and nearly causing a coughing fit as it burned its way down. The filthy parasite of a garbage-eating scraplet was good. Really fragging good. Maybe, however much he choked on the knowledge, better than he was.

With that question, the helicopter understood just how he'd been set up. The mecha smirking down at him with his smug optics and plump lips had been slowly preparing him for this since the first day. The room, the time, the bubble plastic stuff, the drones, all of it had been part of the mindfrag. All the set-up, just so the words Overlord wanted to hear would be uttered honestly.

Vortex could objectively appreciate the artful technique. Orchestrating a game with this many levels required an amount of planning and patience he had to admire, which only made him acutely aware that he was the losing player. Overlord had won. Even now, knowing exactly what other Decepticon was doing, Vortex looked at that fingertip not quite touching his visor and knew that he would still beg. Was _going to_beg.

Another smug chuckle, and that EM field flirted just close enough that Vortex's vocalizer made an involuntary sound of pure longing. The lips behind the hand that'd become Vortex's world curved in a satisfied smile. The reminder had been unnecessary. They both knew the 'copter was going to beg, but Overlord's powerful electromagnetic signature swelled enough to lick over him again just to really rub defeat in.

The Combaticon reset his visor and stared bleakly, anger losing the battle to the gestalt coding sucking him down like quicksand. He couldn't fight it. He couldn't win, because an incomprehensible coldness numbed his frame, dulling his sensors and shutting down his body. His spark withered away, small and trapped inside him, separated from his functions to a degree that emptied him out. His gestalt-mates were so far away their bond only whispered information, the bare minimum of data about their continued functioning. Those stats never changed, informing him they were alive and nothing else.

He had been unmoving and silent for what felt like years now, locked down to a prisoner inside his own body. It all added up to something so very different but somehow scarily similar to what The Box had felt like. That almost made him seize with panic even when doing his best not to think about it. He couldn't go through that again. He _couldn't_.

Yes, he was going to beg. He would beg an entire cycle if it would keep the isolation at bay. Knowing how he'd been manipulated to this point did nothing to make him less desperate.

Vortex gritted his teeth behind the mask, glared at the expectant look playing over the other mecha's face, and forced it out: "Please."

"Please what, Vortex?" Overlord asked in the sweetly chiding tone of someone talking down to a newly activated frame.

This was as bad as when Megatron had ordered the reactivated, reprogrammed Combaticons to their knees before him the first time. Fighting the gestalt code was as futile as trying to go against the loyalty programming. They would both crush him down in the end. "Please, don't leave," scraped out one humiliating syllable at a time. The rotary mecha quivered with rage, but the words came out flattened of all emotion.

The larger Decepticon looked down at him, still expectant but theatrically tired. Ho hum, just a bored spectator waiting for a show to start. The expression morphed into something nastier as the 'copter failed to perform the song and dance the officer seemed to expect. The full lips twisted, and that world-encompassing hand filling Vortex's vision began to withdraw.

"Please, **Overlord** _**sir!**_" Vortex screamed, his EM field spiking off his plating as sheer panic sent his circuitry crackling excess energy. Uncontrollable terror boiled over inside him. It ran down the inside of his chest and scorched his spark, and no no _no_, not The Box, anything but The Box - !

Overlord paused, savoring the gibbering fear for a torturously lengthy moment. The smaller Decepticon's EM field groped after him in blind panic until the triple-changer deigned to bend towards him again. This time, the pleased chuckle got a look of stark relief in return. The rage had evaporated as if it never was, and the Combaticon strained toward that smug laughter because it wasn't going away. Overlord wasn't abandoning him to his statis protocols and shrieking gestalt code, and that was all that mattered.

"Ahh. There we are," his captor and tormentor crooned. Such a good prisoner, broken to heel. Look at him sit up and beg on command! "It's good to see you are finally learning manners, Vortex."

As he spoke, the amused officer touched the very tip of his finger's friction pad to the rim of the red visor. The helicopter went completely rigid, transfixed by the tiny spot of contact, and one side of the triple-changer's sculpted lips turned up in a satisfied smile. The fingertip slid, gracing the glass with the lightest of pressures as it followed the visor's edge, accompanied by the hushed hiss of metal on glass.

Vortex had been prepared for his sensor nodes to go trigger-happy on his network after the amount of time they'd spent inactive, but he most definitely had not been prepared for the surge of warmth that spread like wildfire from a simple touch. His own circuitry sparked and blazed as the light swipe of that finger transmitted energy and physical heat to stasis-chilled systems that'd been deprived for far too long. It kicked his cortex's priority queue, reminding the systems on it that they should be living instead of slowly deactivating. A wave of shameful relief made his pumps stall, and his engine gurgled as it tried to turn over. He was so, so relieved to feel any kind of temperature increase after the cold, but the true pleasure came from his gestalt programming.

That blasted _programming_ and its connected subset of coding beneath standard operating code all but sobbed with relief at the contact of another living mecha. Overlord felt _hot_, his metal alive and breathing the electromagnetic energy the 'copter had once taken for granted. That finger felt - it felt - it was _alive_. That careless touch encapsulated the interaction he'd been craving, everything his gestalt-bond _needed_. If it couldn't have his team, then it would seize any substitute. That single finger was alive in a way that the drones could only mimic, and Vortex hadn't know exactly what he was missing until he got this sample. Just a sample, a too-brief taste, and he ached for more.

That only made it more terrible. It was like give his fuel tanks a bare sip of real energon after trying to survival-adapt to a hydro-electric power core instead. It upset his attempts at adapting to the horrible isolation and landed him squarely back where he'd started. It wasn't like he'd been making any progress whatsoever, but the back of his head had been coming around, glacially slow, to a despairing sort of surrender to eventual stasis-lock. Mecha could only soak in nightmares for so long before the edge of terror wore off.

But not if the nightmare were given fresh fuel to restart the fear with. Overlord's touch had reawakened dormant systems and reset the countdown, and Vortex was _terrified._

It made him feel dreadfully weak and desperate for more. This wasn't the kind of fight that could be fought by weaponry or even his own deranged brand of mental combat. This was a battle fought beneath his conscious mind, where his own machine code undermined every attempt his higher thought processes made. He _needed_ on a level deeper than mere fuel-hunger or physical addiction. Addictions could be broken. Starving for energon could be dealt with as an exercise in pain and energy conservation. This, however. This punched in below his control and took over his body by subverting his mind. Resistance broke before it could be mounted. He struggled uselessly, trying to follow after the hand when it left his visor, and he couldn't even feel humiliated when that pitiful whine came from his throat again.

Vortex needed; please, his body ached and _throbbed_ with a need only interaction could sate. Interaction, social interaction, the unpredictable and predictable give and take of dealing with someone outside his head. He wanted sounds, he wanted touches, he wanted it all, but what he wanted most was just the responses drawn out from reacting to another living being. The simple skim of Overlord's energy field over his own had seared into his mind that the drones could never give him what he needed, now. He'd been settling for their input because it was all he'd had, but now his famished coding had latched on to what could be available if only he bent and broke and did whatever it'd take to get anything, anything this mecha decided to grant him.

Overlord didn't speak. The triple-changer just gazed down at him, waiting for...something. Something unknown, some standard Vortex had to meet or he'd leave again. The 'copter knew it. Now that the fragger knew that the waiting game would truly break him, he wouldn't hesitate to continue using it against the bound Combaticon. That's what a good interrogator _did_: find the weak spot and exploit it for all it was worth. In this case, Overlord wasn't interrogating him, but that didn't change the strategy. Find button. Push until victim's will collapsed. Take what was wanted.

If only he knew what in the Unmaker's name the big-lipped rustbucket wanted! The aching isolation and _cold_ loomed in Vortex's immediate future if he couldn't figure that out. The idea of more uncountable days in solitary confinement was too much like The Box to bear, and memory-fueled panic raced through his lines. The metal beast of base needs clawed at the back of his head as he frantically thought, discarding solutions even as they occurred to him.

All he had to work with was that Overlord didn't approve of insolence. He'd commented on Vortex 'learning manners.' Basically, he approved of his captive acknowledging him as lord and master via verbal prostration.

Pride was laughable when placed up against what he faced. It wouldn't be the first time he'd bent his neck before someone when given no other choice. At least Starscream wasn't here sneering at him from behind Megatron's shoulder this time. It was a dose of bitter humility, but compared to the alternative?

A shiver went down his rotor blades inside their plastic packaging. Bodily imprisonment no different than The Box.

Begging pardon like a bad little prisoner who'd learned the error of his ways it was, then.

"Overlord, **sir** - " he started, intending to play the humble game, but those exaggerated lips turned down. The small sign of disapproval had him shutting up before he really thought about why.

That black hand rose, but this time the finger touched gently to Overlord's lips in a mocking '_shhhh'_ gesture. It was juvenile and stupid - who shushed a Decepticon warrior? - but Vortex's visor had fastened on the slight movement. He froze and stared eagerly just in case it was toward him, but no. There was the silent order and nothing else. Not that anything else was necessary. Immature as it was, the signal was unmistakable.

Panic swelled up in him. What…what was he supposed to do if not speak? The plastic blanket thing kept him from any other action!

He couldn't endure another round of waiting. Even clinging to this large instance of input and interaction wouldn't stop his sluggish systems from slowly shutting down again. No matter how disgusted he was with the blinding blast of fear that'd brought him to this point, he knew he'd do whatever this triple-changing lead-brained twit wanted him to do, but _what was he supposed to do?_ He couldn't play along with the game if he didn't know the rules!

Everything he could think of to say to persuade the other Decepticon to stay would violate that one stipulation: no talking. He was deathly afraid breaking that known rule would lead to being immediately abandoned. With that weighing on his mind, he didn't even dare beg again.

He kept his mouth shut and stared in mute appeal at the mecha standing motionless before him. The silence was oppressive. Even though Overlord was standing in the same room as him, the quietness compressed the 'copter inside his plastic bubble-roll. He _needed_ to interrupt the silence, _needed_ more than an impassive observer watching him struggle to stay silent. He didn't know what Overlord wanted, slag the fragger's treads! If he could just get a clue - but the urge to outright ask clashed up against unreasonable terror he couldn't control.

Clicking, mechanical fear from the gestalt programming rose like an inescapable tide in his head every time he tried to force his mouth to open. The chill flood drowned his attempts to outthink the mindfrag. It just wanted him to do whatever this source of heat and life desired. No outplaying, no trying to slip around the rules; just submission and surrender. It knew that the last time he had said a single thing, the other mecha had almost left. Therefore, the bestial hindbrain machine code refused to let his higher thought processes open his mouth.

The Combaticon held on as panic frayed his already lost composure. His main processors pinged his logic centers repeatedly for reassurance on why he wasn't talking now now _now_. He needed input, had to have input; any kind of stimulus had to be acquired through any means necessary. _Why was he not talking?!_

An abject whine of starved _need_ eased out from between clenched teeth, almost soft enough to be a whimper. Having someone standing there without letting him interact in any way was torment. Sheer, undiluted torment.

His frame was starting to vibrate by the time the taller Decepticon seemed to see what he'd been waiting for. One hand lifted back toward Vortex's face, and to the helicopter's shame, he couldn't stop himself from straining against the plastic toward it. A sad little moan came from his vocalizer when the hand stopped on the outermost layer wrapped around him instead of continuing on to touch him again. Please, please, touch him again!

"Well done," Overlord rumbled, lips richly curved in self-satisfied mockery, and two enormous fingers singled out a teensy bubble.

And slowly squeezed. Vortex tensed into a statue inside the blanket roll-thing, every active sensor trained on that tiny air pocket and its taunt plastic walls. The thin plastic had to give, but there was no way to know when. This was nothing like the drones. Vortex had worked out the simple equation between the force behind the drones' needles and the strength of the plastic. The surprise that had kept his systems afloat had ceased to work, but this? Overlord was squeezing and releasing, intentionally teasing him, and he had _no idea_ when the burst would come. Statis protocols plummeted to the bottom of his processor queues as every system snapped total attention, spinning his network rapidly online past the furthest point he'd managed on his own.

He was whimpering steadily, visor downturned as far as the tight layers of plastic would allow his neck to bend, and he could just barely see from the bottom of his vision as the fingers squished the bubble delicately. "Do you want it?" Overlord asked, and the question was couched in a husky voice that promised fulfillment. That promised the squeezing would follow through, and the rotary mech would get his reward.

Vortex's whimpers became short, subvocal pleas panted out with every heavy in/ex-vent cycle now supporting his riled systems. The _need_chained his vocalizer offline, forcefully obedient to the order given, but those black fingers pinched and made the plastic squeal quietly until desperation broke even the helicopter's machine core. "Yes! Yes yes yes!"

"Ah-ah," he was scolded. "Do mind your manners, Vortex. I would hate for that lesson to be repeated."

The Combaticon's vocalizer harshly squawked feedback as it cut out. No. No, re-teaching that lesson wasn't required.

Those mesmerizing lips curved, but Vortex couldn't look away from the air pocket rolled so delicately between Overlord's thumb and forefinger. "Do you want it?"

It took him a second to gather enough wits to compose an answer he thought would please the sadist. "Yes, Overlord sir." He swallowed, unable to look away, and the words poured out in a low, agonized groan. "Oh yes, please."

Of course that wasn't sufficient to ensure he'd been humbled. "How much?"

"Overlord sir." He couldn't even pretend he was only playing along to humor the Pit-slag smelter reject. No, Vortex wanted that fragging bubble so much he almost couldn't see straight for the noiseless shrieking of his coding rattling about his head. "I want it so much, please," he said with painful sincerity. "Please, Overlord sir."

"Hmm. I do reward progress and obedience. Remember this lesson, and you may not need to experience how I punish…forgetfulness." The warning came laden with amusement, because the glazed reflection of overbright optical sensors behind red visor glass indicated that Vortex had pretty much stopped hearing anything past '_I do reward'._

Reward, yes, he deserved a reward. He'd been a good prisoner and done the song and dance his captor demanded. That tiny bubble bulged as it compressed ever-so-slowly, and Vortex gasped in a deep breath to hold, waiting. Please, yes, this time. No more teasing. Overlord's fingers were too powerful to -

_**POP.**_

That. That _sound_.

A wave of instant gratification sheeted down the Combaticon's quivering body and gushed hotly through his mind, nearly strong enough to melt his joints into liquid, shaking release. His audios and optical sensors shut off to better facilitate every single sensor turning inward to dissect that sound, that absolutely perfect moment of _satisfaction_ that ran down his whole body like the electric release of the best overload he'd ever imagined experiencing. It felt strangely similar, but more. More addictive, more pervasive and stronger; a fulfillment beyond the mere physical sensation that would have left his body sated and his mind still yearning. No, this was an all-encompassing climax, and the warm afterglow making his machine code purr contentedly was almost as sweet.

The anticipation had built up and up, but it'd been worth it, so worth it. The bubble had popped and delivered every bit of the promised reward.

A strange, hitching moan seeped from his throat in a long, low sound of bliss - followed closely by a confused, questioning noise.

Vortex reactivated his visor and stared in complete puzzlement at the triple-changer. What...had just happened, here?

His confusion didn't last long. The Decepticon officer graced him with another smug smile and turned, and then all the helicopter could think about was Overlord's back as it left him in the room.

Again. By himself. In the silence and solitude.

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**0 0 The Aft End (Shibara speaks) 0 0**

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That bubble, as drawn by me, can be found on Tumblr (user Shibara) or in this story on Ao3.


	7. Chapter 7

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**0 0 Part Seven 0 0**

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After exiting his makeshift 'guest room', Overlord descended back into the main levels of the base via the stairs. They were more time-consuming than a lift, but more efficient in terms of energy consumption. Since the outpost currently only had two occupants, repowering the lifts hardly seemed necessary.

He didn't mind. The walk to and from the upper level gave him an opportunity to truly relish the little Combaticon's reactions. He strode down the halls, hands clasped behind his back, and smirked to himself as he walked. Poor Vortex. The helicopter knew all the tricks of torture and interrogation. He'd probably thought he could hold out by bending around the rules of the game, but no. No, Overlord did his research, and he knew how to change the rules so that there was no bending.

Overlord's victims never had a chance, but he did so enjoy how each one resisted breaking. Setting up the right canvas meant all the boundaries were placed and permanent, and his latest pet project certainly wasn't going to be the one who managed to escape. No, once the frame was constructed, it was only a matter of filling in the right setting for a proper breaking.

If Vortex were a garden, all the unwanted growth had just been hacked back. Burning out the previous tangle of weeds, really, that's what subduing his attitude and insolence really boiled down to. Now that Overlord had eradicated the root system, it was just a matter of pulling particularly stubborn bits of personality out and letting his own plantings take over the plot.

The vacationing officer walked unhurriedly towards the room he'd taken as his own, pondering how he'd shape his latest hobby victim and smiling absently to himself as he walked. When he reached the room, he filled a small cube from the high grade sent from Shockwave's personal distillery. A nice touch, he thought, acknowledging the, ah, 'care' he'd taken in his last assignment. There hadn't been a single survivor when he'd been through.

He swirled the energon in the cube and sipped from it, expression content. He didn't have much use for the Decepticon Cause, but the campaigns and violence? Ah, those he enjoyed. Wholesale violence never ceased to entertain.

It'd been somewhat unexpected to be rewarded for his dedication to furthering his own goals by serving the Cause, but he was hardly going to complain. It was nice to take a break from battle to focus on one project. Downtime between battlefield massacres was refreshing, especially when there were ready amusements at hand.

He took a datapad from the rows that filled the shelves along one of the walls, and then sprawled on a chair for some leisure reading. Shockwave's reading material held a wealth of pleasant surprises, most notably the closed files from the Iaconian Enforcers and reports to the Senate about the gladiatorial rings. Overlord was finding those quite enjoyable.

After a few moments, however, he lifted his optics from the screen and thoughtfully tilted his head. The sound that had followed him from the upper levels had stopped. His audios strained, dialing up to search for the thin thread of noise. He didn't want to miss a moment. It was his favorite background music.

Far above, Vortex started howling again.

Overlord smiled and settled into the chair more comfortably, taking another swig from the cube.

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	8. Chapter 8

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**0 0 Part Eight 0 0**

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It was deep-code instinct. The kind of coding that supported systems, not the actual programs that ran them. It was machine operation code woven through the structure of what made him _him_. It was that hidden system cradle formed by every bit of the ubiquitous gestalt-bond, his autonomic sensor-network software, and his base-coding. Along with a bunch of dark little things he probably wouldn't realize affected him until they were tweaked.

Vortex knew those were the things Overlord was manipulating, and he _hated_ it. All of it: Overlord, himself, his fragging machine weaknesses, the plastic blanket-thing, the blank-walled room, the drones - all of it!

Because it was totally outside of his control. The thing about machine-level coding was that it took a medic to root out inherent problems. Mecha themselves couldn't analyze errors below the processor level, not without external help. Where computer interface met programming; yes, that whole area could be gone over line by line. It was a nigh-unbearable headache and prone to causing more problems than it fixed, but it was possible. Analyzing the body's root code? Not so much.

Programming itself adapted quickly, because that's what Cybertronians were built to do. The slower, less advertised but just as utilized adaptation happened below the visible level where mecha didn't generally realize it was happening. Code kept up with function. So if Vortex's function had changed to being a stasis-bound lump of useless, bubble-wrapped limbs, then his coding would adapt to it. He'd mostly preventing his programming from nose-diving into screwy errors by fighting the stasis protocols tooth and rotor blade, but his gestalt-bond was both hardware and software. He wasn't capable of fighting it, and it'd been busily shifting about in the back of his head while he'd been concentrating on just keeping the sensor network online in his hands. He hadn't realized what his deep-code was up to until his body revolted against his conscious mind and threw him under Overlord's feet.

The whole mess of plastic, solitary confinement, and time had combined here and now into an unstoppable force that ground him into the floor. Everything had come together, elegantly crafted by that aft-kisser Overlord to make him want and need things he wouldn't want or need in any other situation. The uniquely bizarre physical restraint and isolation had resulted in near-total input starvation unmatched in any case he could recall. The time involved had likely been the deciding factor, or the distance from his gestalt. Both were something mecha belonging to a combiner team apparently couldn't handle. For a while, perhaps, but not for…however long he'd been trapped here. Too long.

While any mecha stuck in solitary confinement for months would emerge a needy glitch grasping after any shred of social interaction offered, Vortex was a Combaticon. The gestalt-rebuild had remodeled him from the spark out, changing him in ways he couldn't control. The Combaticons as a unit had come to grips with being gestalt-linked together, but they were still discovering just what that _meant_. Overlord was kindly using this opportunity to introduce Vortex to some previously unthought-of complications.

For Vortex, the gestalt meant a gaping lack in his spark. It was a craving _ache_ he'd never experienced before. He needed. He _needed_, and the need subjugated him. His gestalt, parts and program and support code alike, had rewritten itself to accept any input as a substitute - anything at all - because the alternative was screeching as he suffered painless craving that kept building. The way the sucking void kept dragging more powerfully with every moment of deprivation, he had the sinking feeling he'd grab a weapon to blow his own head off if substitutions couldn't ease the ache a little. So _technically_, because he wasn't normally suicidal, he had to acknowledge this was a better solution. Allowing other input to substitute for what his gestalt-bond wailed for was better than death.

But the substitution allowance resulted in his coding _needing_ interaction the same way Vortex _needed_ not to return to the Box. That was bad enough, but it was also far more unreasonable about it. The 'copter had thought his terror over watching his body fall into stasis-lock had been fairly senseless, but not compared to the primitive metal creature his code had become.

It just pursued an end to its needy ache without care to what he actually thought about its antics. Because the only way to fulfill the hollow, hungry need - and it _had_ to be fulfilled, it _had to be_, Primus help him, he couldn't _stop_ the constant torment otherwise - was to surrender, and that was exactly what all this was about: the loss of control

Every time that plush-lipped fragger came into the room, Vortex's logic hubs faltered, higher thought processes stuttering to a muddled halt. His processors, overpowered by primitive machine-level urges, simply took his mind out of the pilot's seat and handed things over to the hands of his most basic software. Because that was what would fill the _need_, grant him his paltry gestalt-substitute, and therefore that's what his body _did_.

That was the awful part, of course. He was losing control of himself, mind and body. Not to the scrap-waste Decepticon that had wrapped him in plastic and left him to be fed by drones and rot in silence, oh no. Overlord was good. Vortex could grudgingly admit that through the hatred when his sentience dribbled out his audios and his body followed his captor's every whim and command. Overlord knew that there were ways to break someone externally, but that was too simplistic and too easy to reverse. No, the plastic bubble-blanket thing was the means, the isolation a way, but Vortex had finally seen the wheel he was being broken on.

Overlord stood politely aside, infuriating lips curved in the most condescending of small smiles, and let Vortex lose control to _himself_.

The helicopter writhed, helpless and enraged inside his cocoon, and fought a losing battle to keep a grip on himself. His higher functions knew the game. He knew what Overlord was doing. The _rest_ of him, however, was a robotic lifeform that had adapted to circumstances. His internal metal beast didn't care about grim determination, or bending instead of breaking. And that was the part that kept paralyzing his mind, because it had perfectly clear ideas of what it wanted.

It knew what it wanted, and what it wanted was to fill in the terrible missing portions of its spark and vital functions. It was going to make him do_anything_ to get its stand-ins. It wanted the tiny stroke of physical contact, the almost-not-there touch on his helm that stimulated his sensors just enough that stasis protocols stayed offline. It wanted the _feel_ of another electromagnetic field, hot and alive although not bleeding from circuitry it truly desired. It wanted…

Oh, frag him, frag his body and mind, because even hating himself for it, there was a niggling part of his conscious mind that agreed. It had been so _long_ here on his own, and - and smelt him, the wriggling metal beast that was Vortex needed the _POP_.

That teensy noise sent him shuddering every time. It was the culmination of every smidgeon of input Overlord graciously gave him, and it was ridiculous how badly the Combaticon needed it. His deep-code wanted that taste of interaction like a starving mech wanted to lick an energon goodie held just out of reach, because if that was all it could get, then it would slagging well crawl and beg and cry to get that lick. It wanted the touch, the bubble, and everything they represented without actually being. It wanted those things, only so much harder and just...more. It ached, throbbed, called, and cried every single moment, eroding his willpower to nothing. As much as Vortex fought his primal machine urges, the cored-out feeling undermined him with unbridled _need_.

The need held him silent, now. Even though he wanted to shout, rant, and rave at the triple-changer circling him like a Sharkticon looking for the right place to bite, he was silent. He'd been shushed, so he was silent. In response to his obedient silence, Overlord stopped his pacing and languidly extended a hand. Vortex's visor brightened, his rotors trembling like tinfoil in their bindings as he watched. Eagerly, hungrily, he watched. Smelt his landing gear and strip him for parts, he couldn't fragging well look away.

The hand paused, of course. Vortex's torment wouldn't be complete without a test, after all, and the helicopter had to stuff down the impatient shout that wanted to leap out. '_Gimme!'_ smoked off his EM field like a beacon of greed.

No. No, patience. He'd tried the shouting, and look what that'd gotten him: days alone. No, he knew better than that, now. Whines were acceptable, even the odd whispered plea, but anything louder or ruder would only earn him the sight of a broad, blue-grey back as Overlord turned and sauntered out the door to leave him to suffer. Speaking out of turn was unacceptable behavior in his captor's optics, and therefore it was not an option for Vortex.

Immeasurable hours of isolation had turned the Combaticon's willpower to tissue paper. It was a ghastly punishment just for how simple it was. All Overlord had to do was turn and walk away, and Vortex would be effectively crushed to a whining bundle of base code desperate to grovel its way back into the large Decepticon's good graces. Vortex's programming would backlash aching disappointment through him in a numb, burning twist of self-loathing and _need need need_. Abandonment made him that much more of a whimpering puddle of neediness when he was finally blessed with the triple-changer's presence again, and his deep-code wouldn't even give him a chance to act before kicking him into the back of his cortex to watch his own breaking happen.

His conscious mind was aware of it happening, but he couldn't stop his internal machine-beast from rolling to show Overlord its vulnerable belly. The warlord didn't even have to do anything. He just had to turn on a heel as if to leave, and he had the 'copter by the throat.

The resultant abject pleas weren't enough, however. Not for Overlord. No, the lesson the whimpering creature crouched in Vortex's bound body learned from repeated abandonment was that repenting for a transgression wouldn't bring mercy. The transgression needed to not happen in the first place. The subconscious living machine had to seize control earlier in order to prevent offending Overlord at all. It had to overpower Vortex's higher thought processes more quickly, and that was the ruthless lesson Vortex dreaded. That lesson was the one truly bringing him to his knees.

And Vortex swore that the times between visits lengthened whenever he misbehaved. That just made the ache _worse_. The worse the ache, the less control he had. The only way to keep what little he still had was to comply before the fragging _need_ took over. The only way to do that was to obey Overlord consciously before the well-trained, needy creature inside him didn't give him a choice in the matter.

Therefore, no shouting. No demands, no threats, and no insults. None of those impacted Overlord in the slightest. The mecha had no obligation to return, and he certainly didn't care about anything his powerless victim could do. The only thing the officer cared about, so far as Vortex could tell, was teaching Vortex obedience. Complete and total obedience, and it obviously wasn't worth his time to do hands-on discipline when his standards weren't met. Solitary confinement worked so well as a reprimand, after all.

Vortex and his greedy internal code-beast of needs and wants were at constant war because they had _learned_. They had learned - or more accurately, they had been _taught_, and Vortex most profoundly _did not like_ what they'd been taught. Because he _had_ been taught to obey, even if it were only a matter him choosing to obey instead of being forced. That didn't change the fact that he was still obeying.

Nothing he could do would change anything. He was given only what Overlord decided to give him, and that was entirely up to the other Decepticon's whim. Over the course of the passing unmeasured time and the endless, repetitive visitations, Vortex had had that lesson pounded through his stubborn head. He fought accepting it, but even as he railed against himself, the code-deep needy _ache_ that controlled him meekly internalized the lesson.

Nothing but obedience mattered in this room.

So he obeyed. He stayed silent, waiting as he'd been taught until Overlord gave a minute nod of approval and extended his hand forward that final distance. Despite how he hated himself for it, the Combaticon did his level best to lunge forward to meet it. His visor flickered briefly offline as his sensors dedicated the energy toward _feeling_ every last iota of input when a single fingertip gave his helm the tiniest caress ever known to the Cybertronian race.

As always, it didn't last more than three seconds - why yes, he _had_ timed it - and left Vortex buzzing. His body thrummed inside the plastic blanket-thing with a sense of glee and unfulfilled frustration he had never known before this place.

If he'd felt this sensation anywhere else, he'd have found someone to fight or interface until it went away. It was a feeling that had to _go_somewhere, but instead, it was contained. Contained, and curbed, and turned in on itself until Vortex squirmed inside his own armor. It turned him inside out and _did_ things to him that he couldn't stop.

The approving smile widened, and his squirming became disgustingly eager at the sight. He'd been good. He'd been so good, what with not speaking and waiting instead of demanding. Now, because he'd been good, Overlord would let him demonstrate how well he'd learned respect under the officer's tutelage. And if he was polite enough, if he adequately displayed how well he'd learned, Overlord would reward him for it.

Overlord used his fingertips to gently catch a plastic bubble, and Vortex absolutely loathed the excited, wriggling part of himself that could not_wait_ to show the bigger Decepticon what a good subordinate he'd become. He waited for permission from his officer, futilely stomping on the yearning that drove him to do exactly as he was told. He hated but couldn't take his visor away from the bubble. He wanted, needed, undeniably_had to have_ it.

He silently railed against the bubble he desperately craved, but he stayed obediently silent. Overlord rolled the fragile air pocket between massive fingers. The Combaticon twitched spastically at every delicate _squeeka_ noise. This wasn't over yet, of course. No, first the triple-changer's pet project had to demonstrate how much progress had been made. A reward couldn't come without cause, after all, so here came the really humiliating part. This was the part that had Vortex shrieking inside, fighting to deny what he manifestly _needed_. This was the part that he always lost, and lost again right now.

"Do you want **it**?" Overlord inquired solicitously. His full lips smiled warm friendliness, as if he'd asked something benign, something normal, and Vortex felt compelled to answer.

"Yes," the Combaticon said quietly. "Yes, please." More words tried to activate his vocalizer, tried to blurt out, and he clenched his jaw. No, no, not this time. He didn't want to, he didn't _have_ to; he could stop right there! He had to answer, and he knew how to answer. He'd been perfectly polite. He knew that was what was required. He'd answered the bare minimum, but that's all he _had_ to say!

More words still pushed out. What singed his pride into scorched rags was the fact that Overlord never once demanded he answer this way, not since that first time chiding him on his manners. Vortex just said the extra words now because part of him was too terrified that he wouldn't get_it_ if he didn't. Machine-level _ache_ tore the words out of him like a plea:

"Yes, Overlord sir. Oh yes, please. I want it so much, please."

The mecha that now filled his vision - and his hearing, and, frag, his sense of smell, too - chuckled merrily as if told a most amusing joke. He looked down at the plastic-wrapped helicopter, making sure to meet his visor with gloating optics, and let the moment linger. The pause served no purpose but to grind into the humiliated Decepticon what precisely had just happened.

Every time, Overlord came into this room and asked him only that one question: "Do you want **it**?" That was all, and that made the 'copter bristle anxiously. He knew, and Overlord knew he knew, what was being done to him.

The question was a horrible thing because it never changed. Asking anything else would have meant that this was going somewhere. This, though; this was just training. It was repetition to train a desired response into a subject - namely, Vortex. It was the same question, the same routine, every time. Like the bare room and the plastic, it was meant to warp his basic functions' code until it - it being Vortex's body, and therefore the mind yelling protest inside it - responded exactly as desired.

Not because Overlord wanted to hear him beg for personal amusement (okay, there was probably a big dose of that unless Vortex had completely missed his guess about what kind of mecha Overlord was), but because he wanted Vortex to hear himself force the truth out again and again. The repetition was wearing a response/reaction groove down through the Combaticon's deprived gestalt-bond so deep he was afraid he wouldn't be able to root it out again. The 'copter knew what kind of manipulation that was, and how it was being used to train him. That didn't make it any less effective. Not when Vortex's deep-code jumped on command and was _such_ a good machine-beast, all for a droplet of strictly-limited interaction.

That accursed bubble haunted Vortex's recharge, now. He dreamt of the sound of plastic bursting. He had nightmares about it, too.

His tension was equal parts expectation and fury. He knew what was coming, because it'd happened just like this so many times now. It was routine. The large digits pressed slowly until the noise, that wonderful and terrible noise, broke the silence: _**POP.**_

And the noise made him feel _good_. Deliciously, ludicrously, _good_ on a level that had absolutely nothing to do with what Vortex wanted. Now, like every time he heard that sound, the pseudo-physical pleasure of new sensation washed through him. It tingled under his plating from helm to feet, and ohhh. It was _good_, so _good_.

He hated his body for loving that sound, because he did not want it, but he deeply, passionately _needed_ it. It had everything to do with what his core systems needed, far beneath the level of his conscious mind.

Worse yet, worse than knowing he shut off his visor, shuddered, and moaned in front of this sadistic frag-rag of a 'Con, worse than reacting so strongly to a faint sound of air and plastic and pressure - no, worse yet was how the wave of relief felt like a reward. It splashed over his spark in a release of tension that felt...like he'd earned it. Like his silent, hateful submission had somehow earned something worthwhile.

Every time the short training routine finished, Overlord waited until the blissful shivering stopped and the helicopter's visor blinked back on. Only then did he step back and, without another word, exit the room. His prisoner mournfully watched him go.

Then, as always, the horrible loneliness settled in around Vortex once more. That was the worst part of the whole cycle. The Combaticon's systems handed his logic hubs back to his writhing consciousness, and _ugh_. A sickening pang of humiliation shot through him at the degree of cooperation he'd once again stooped to. He couldn't stop himself from begging anymore than he could stop the aching _need_ that'd made him submit, but that didn't make it feel any better afterward.

The ill clutch in his tanks lingered because even once he was back in control of himself, he still couldn't help but _want_ to submit. That was the truly masterful stroke in all this. He was very well aware that the code-beast lurking under his thoughts wanted to fling itself at Overlord's feet. Vortex knew that the moment that fragging Decepticon triple-changing glitch came into the room again, all he'd want to do was obey.

It was becoming very clear how he'd been stripped of control and conditioned to react. When he disobeyed, there would be abandonment, maddening _need_, and the stasis protocols creeping up his queue. When he obeyed, there would be the brief, hot touch that kept the Detention Centre box away from his thoughts, and that bubble. Oh, that bubble. That wonderful reward to make his frame tremble in delight and his mind recoil in hate.

This time as every time, he raged against the facts of his situation in desperation and despair, but he couldn't do anything to change them.

And Overlord came more and more frequently now.

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	9. Chapter 9

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**0 0 Part Nine 0 0**

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Overlord settled back in his seat and looked at the screen displaying his pet project. The Combaticon was being attended to by one of the drones. He had reversed the drones' programmed responses as soon as he'd begun the hands-on portion of the training, so Vortex was getting nothing from the current drone but fuel. The 'glitches' that'd caused the drones' arms to wobble and prick their needles into the plastic had been carefully planned, and there was no longer any need for them. Now that the Combaticon's programming had been primed and fastened onto the bubble sounds as salvation, any and all such rewards would only come directly from Overlord's hands. Utter obedience would be ground into his processor as the only way to get that reward, and that obedience would be ground _deep_.

As he watched Vortex's visor listlessly dim toward recharge again, the triple-changer replayed the last session in his head.

The helicopter had been showing signs of successful conduct modifications for more than two weeks now. That was good progress. Better than he had expected, actually. Vortex did have a reputation, after all, and Overlord had expected more of a struggle before the breaking completed. Then again, he did have the upper hand.

He smiled to himself, reaching out to casually clean a speck of dust from the screen. Yes, this was going to be quite the notch on his record. Certain phrases and oblique references in Shockwave's continued communiqués with him indicated that the Guardian of Cybertron had been subtly spreading the word about his work here. Apparently, the relations between Shockwave and the Combaticon team leader were less than ideal. Shockwave had been letting the rest of the Decepticons know about Vortex's humbling as a way to humiliate Onslaught, but disguising it under a thin official veneer of informing potential troublemakers that behavioral issues could be dealt with on a much more terrible scale than mere physical brutality.

Overlord had know of the rivalry between Megatron's subcommanders, but he'd never felt a need to vie for the Supreme Commander's attention. When he made his move, it would be enough to garner Megatron's full interest. In the meantime, he merely curled his lip at Shockwave's hint of a threat if he didn't succeed in crushing Vortex. The Guardian had committed too much for this to be an unsuccessful project, but he hardly needed to worry. It would be successful indeed. Overlord was enjoying himself far too much not to follow through to complete victory.

It was such a gratifying spectacle to watch a mind rearranging its own priorities, slowly but surely, under the weight of its own base-code.

When he'd originally scanned the personal file of the mecha blearily struggling to stay awake on the screen in front of him, the information about the Detention Centre had stood out. He had been mildly interested on the practical applications of the data about spark extraction and psychological aftereffects of the detention spark boxes, but - Primus! He'd thought it would require a bit more effort for successful emulation than a few hundred meters of plastic and a month of isolation, but he'd been wrong. That had been a pleasant discovery. It seemed that tinkering with the Combaticon's stasis preparation protocols had created the right mental weakness. Isolation, immobilization, and dropping toward statis had prepared Vortex wonderfully. The involuntary memory recalls had been almost visible.

The results? Priceless. Even with a clear notion of what was being done to him, the illusion was still strong enough to trigger the rotary mecha. Which was, in a very pointed way, exactly what this was about. There was a part of every Cybertronian that could overwhelm conscious thought if manipulated correctly, and Overlord was a master manipulator.

He chuckled with satisfaction. A week more, just to be on the safe side, and then he'd test the Combaticon. He wasn't broken to heel yet, however promising the training progress had been so far. Overlord expected at least one or two more incidents as stubborn defiance took a last stand. He was looking forward to that. The enjoyment he'd feel while snapping the last of the little scrapheap's will…or rather, the enjoyment he'd take in watching Vortex snap it himself for his viewing pleasure.

On the screen, Vortex had lost the fight against his own body and fallen into recharge. Overlord smiled again and shut off the screen .

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	10. Chapter 10

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**0 0 Part Ten 0 0**

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Vortex's systems were active. Frag, they were working at a frenzied rate. The statis protocols were edging down toward the bottom of the queue, almost to the point where they would go dormant, and he was far more excited about that bit of normalcy than he had any right to be. This was fantastic. He had made an honest attempt at controlling his reactions, trying to keep a semblance of dignity and detachment over what was happening, but it had proved impossible.

Did he have any dignity left? Doubtful. The Combaticon gave up the attempt and let his EM field bleed ecstatic happiness. His body was still locked down, but hibernating systems were coming online. That was ecstasy, pure pleasure after so long offline. He could feel his _hands_ and his_knees_ and - and -

- and the room was full of _noise._ His audios were greedily straining to catch every sound wave created as the rustling sound of the wretched plastic finally - _finally!_ - was unwrapped. Trapped shut inside the cocoon, his vents seized in excitement with muted _flop-flop-flop_s. He barely managed to keep his vocalizer from clicking incoherently in relief as his visor fought to focus. Everything kept blurring around him as his gestalt-bond gloried in input. So much input! After the timeless stretch of input-starvation, this was a glut of new data sending his systems racing.

He reset his visor again and again, watching the plastic bubble-sheet being removed, and tried to take it all in. His head ached faintly, processors generating heat they hadn't emitted for far too long as they dealt with the influx, and it was a wonderful thing. Pain was wonderful. It was actual, physical ache. He hoped it worsened.

The Combaticon eagerly followed the hulking shape of the triple-changer (Overlord _sir_) as he walked around the bound mecha. The big hands didn't touch him, still. They wound the plastic material into a roll before it fluttered to the floor. Why was Vortex being freed? Was the waiting game over? He hoped Overlord was going to start the next phase with a beating. Oh, please, let there be a beating. That would boost his systems entirely out of the danger zone, and mere physical pain was something the interrogator excelled in warping to his advantage.

His mounting anticipation died a quick death when the larger Decepticon stepped back, smoothing the end of the plastic sheet onto the roll and placing it off to one side. Apparently he wasn't going to be completely unwrapped; Overlord had only peeled off the layers that covered his head, shoulders and upper chest. That left the top of his rotor hub exposed, but it just whirred sadly when he tried to flex his rotor blades.

This would be a major disappointment as soon as his sensor network came down from the high it was tripping through. Overlord hadn't even touched him, but the bare auditory input of it had been enough to send him reeling. His processors were sorting through a backlog of data input, and he was overriding every attempt by his CPU to quick-sort the influx in order to dump repetitive sounds as inconsequential. None of the sounds were inconsequential. They were all extremely important, and he was going to treasure _every single one_. If the waiting game wasn't truly over, this might be the only input he received for the next month. That didn't seem likely, but at this point?

He really wasn't going to put limits on Overlord at this point.

Still, being able to move his helm and roll his shoulders was amazing. The helicopter twisted and turned as much as he could, shaking off kinks he had been developing for weeks. Cables flexed, creaking, and tubes shifted. He shrugged his shoulders up and down and rolled them as far as he could against the tight wrappings still holding his arms to his sides. Crackling sounds came from his shoulders and the back of his neck, where his back struts and joints had gone dry without proper lubrication.

It felt so good. There were sharp pangs from cables stretching, and the sharper pains where the kinks had to pull apart. Deliciously free movement spliced the pain into the pleasure, and yes. Yes. He'd never imagined tipping his helm forward and backward could feel so good. It was like waking up on that island after being in detention for millions of years. He'd _felt_ the sand and wind, _listened_ to that Seeker's screechy voice like it was the Voice of Primus, and it'd been breathtaking. The Combaticons had all known that the input was mundane and normal, but despite knowing, they'd been too deprived not to momentarily adore Earth and Starscream for merely existing.

His systems finally roused enough to start his engine. Cool as his body was, it sputtered and coughed before actually starting a rough purr.

Then Overlord spoke. "Vortex."

The hum of pleasure in the smaller Decepticon's systems shriveled and died. Every cable in his frame tightened to near-snapping pressure as his body stiffened in preparation for...something. He didn't know what, and that was the scary part. His name hadn't been a question, nor an order or a statement of any kind he could understand. Overlord had said nothing but his name, and that in itself was marvelous in its novelty, but it also meant there was no guidance. He had no safe direction in which to go. Deviating from the routine meant he was once again treading on fragile ground, that thin line between what he knew to be approved behavior and the vast unknown. Any and all unapproved actions might invoke Overlord's displeasure and more of that terrible solitude.

So Vortex waited, impatient but silent. As much as it irked him, he relied on the training to try and avoid disappointing the officer. It was written in fire across his processor that silence was what was expected of him, and therefore silent he would be. If the fragging glitchhead (Overlord _sir_, he who touched, he who made the blessed/cursed _sound_) was in the room, then Vortex was going to follow his every cue like a good subordinate.

Because the only other option was one he really, really didn't want to think about.

After a minute or two of gluing his gaze to those lips, waiting for his next hint or order, he saw them curl upwards. The smug little smile revolted him, because the machine beast inside him immediately perked up. That particular smile meant that he'd been pleasing. Pleasing Overlord was good. Pleasing him meant that Vortex had earned a reward, and _that_ thought had even the Combaticon's conscious mind straining toward his captor as far as possible.

"Good. We **are** making progress," those infuriating lips said, and the fury mixed with joy in Vortex's spark when Overlord carelessly reached out. The rotary mecha's gaze snapped to the extended finger.

By now, the little pause was expected. It was even a mild comfort amidst today's many changes to the routine, and Vortex just kept his visor faithfully locked to his promised reward. The wait made the delighted, wordless sound from his vocalizer stronger when the finger caressed his helm at last.

He wasn't sure if he dreaded or hoped for the ritual question to come, but when it did, the loss of a few layers of plastic didn't make much of a difference. The fragging triple-changer asked his sweet little question, and Vortex revealed exactly how much control he had over his coding - which was to say, none. That was the power of this routine, after all. Even with the onslaught of new input prodding the statis protocols down, his deep-code had adjusted to accepting that tiny, stupid noise as a substitute for his missing gestalt.

So yes, he did want it still, Overlord _sir_. He wanted it so much, yes he did, and he'd be such a good 'copter to get it. The warlord squished the plastic gently, watching him closely, but Vortex had learned. He'd kept his silence until told to speak, and he'd been respectful when he'd spoken.

The huge Decepticon smiled again and made a little bubble burst: **_POP._**

Vortex couldn't stop himself. He moaned softly and it was a humiliating sound to hear coming from his own mouth. That was the nonphysical pain of this situation. He'd learned Overlord's lessons well enough to know that fighting them only unseated his conscious mind. He'd stopped fighting, making the decision to obey in order to retain what little control he could, but that left him dealing with what his body felt without his consent. Now it was him, not his primitive machine self, moaning like he'd had the best overload of his life.

Because of a blasted air pocket.

He wanted to curl into himself and hide his shame, but that was never allowed. Lacking the ability to move, he just waited for Overlord to give his irritatingly knowing smile and leave him to steep in helplessness.

Overlord didn't exit the room after that, however. The tall officer simply stood before him, judging him with that red stare once more. The critical gaze caused Vortex's tanks to flutter despite how he tried to step on the unease. He didn't know what was going on in this new stage. Since he couldn't escape, that meant this fragger was still the center of his universe. All hail the master of the popping bubbles. Please, oh plastic lord, grant him the boon of a hint about what he should do next.

The massive triple-changer began to stroll around him, but when Vortex started to turn his helm to follow - yes, he could _do_ that now, frag yes! - the towering mecha paused. The bottom of Vortex's tanks iced up as Overlord backtracked. The slow steps breathed menace because they were an obvious response to the 'copter doing something wrong. If he did something wrong, it'd displease his officer, and then he'd be abandoned. He didn't want to go back to isolation!

Overlord raised a finger directly in front the Combaticon's visor, making the rotary mecha tremble in reflex, and moved it slowly in the opposite direction of his walking. Vortex instinctively followed the tip of that finger like a mesmerized petrorabbit until he found himself looking ahead again.

"No." The 'copter cringed visibly, because he _feared_ this blasted rust-eater's disapproval so much his spark throbbed with each chastising word. "Don't move, Vortex."

Humiliation flamed through his internal systems on the heels of the conditioned fear. Vortex seethed inside his head but didn't fight his trained, ingrained first instinct to obey. He just did as he was told and kept his visor looking straight ahead. Overlord's finger lingered momentarily, pointing at him, before the huge Decepticon lowered his hand again and resumed his stroll. This time, Vortex remained facing forward, following the slow circle around him with only his proximity sensors.

Okay, there were new commands for this next stage of imprisonment. Now he was meant to be silent until spoken to, respectful when he spoke, and also stay still unless commanded otherwise. That wasn't so bad. He could handle that. Of course he could. He had been wrapped in infernal plastic bubble for ages proving he'd learnt the first two lessons to Overlord's satisfaction. He could fragging well bow to this stupid rule as well if it made the triple-changer happy. It's not as if it meant anything at this point. In the grand scheme of things, following one more degrading order meant very little compared to being made to beg for a feather light touch to his helm. He wasn't losing anymore dignity in complying with something as petty as this. Nope. If the triple-changing rust bucket thought he actually cared at this po -

Vortex's train of thought evaporated mid sentence.

He couldn't see Overlord. The fragger stood directly behind him, doing... something. His proximity sensors told him the officer had stepped in close, inside the diameter of the circle he had been walking around the 'copter. In fact, the other Decepticon hadn't just stopped to stand behind Vortex. He was also looming _over_ him. The triple-changer was so tall that if he bent slightly, his head would be above Vortex's.

Uneasiness crept over the Combaticon. It was that blasted fear of the unknown, again, and he still couldn't control it. What was happening? Why had Overlord bent over him like that, and why wasn't he doing anything? Anxiety made his rotor hub itch fiercely, twitching his rotor blades in teensy shifting motions back and forth in their swaddling, and the sense of helplessness only built on the fear that'd already been preying on him. When something subtly caressed the back of his helm, his spark tried to jump out of his chest. _What_ up Primus' holy aft - ?!

It hadn't been a touch, he fragging well could _feel_ those, but it had been warm. It spilled across his helm again, and fury roared through the unease. His visor dimmed to almost shut-down as he realized what it was. It was air. The moronic glitch was _breathing_ on him. What the Pit was that supposed to mean to him? What kind of non-verbal cue was an ex-vent?

Anger roasted his fear to twinges of disgruntlement, and he grumbled internally until he didn't know what else to rage about. He didn't dare react to the warm air wafting over him. Vortex's visor narrowed and glared angrily at the door, but the breathing kept caressing the back of his head. His captor said nothing, did nothing. The breathing was merely there.

In the dead silence of the cell, Overlord's systems were perfectly audible. The heavy-duty purr of a tank engine was paired with a flier's engine pitch. A strong fuel pump thudded over the continual small sounds of tiny pieces of internal machinery realigning. To Vortex's input-starved audios, Overlord was an orchestra of living noise, and they gloried in every smidgen of sound. Immersed in the sea of sounds, he realized it wasn't that the officer was actually breathing _on_ him, but that Vortex had simply become so high-tuned for any sort of contact that normal ventilation air flow felt like a gust.

Overlord was just standing behind him, but Vortex's sensors strained to feel everything they could from the larger Decepticon. The triple-changer was soaking him with his presence, and he had no idea why.

It felt disgustingly nice.

He would rather eat his own rotor blades than admit it even to_ himself_, but the proximity felt too close to the brief, training/reward touches not to trigger all sorts of happy warnings in his processor. In fact, there were quite a few of those by now. The Combaticon's gestalt-bond roused from its post-bubble stupor, and his inner needy beast sat up straight, quivering eagerly as new input was dangled in front of it. Or behind him, as it were. His code pinged him constantly, demanding contact, _all of it. __**Now!**_

_…please._

Even his bratty deep-code had learned manners by now, because Vortex was such a well-trained subordinate. He kept totally still even as his deep code screamed for contact. That internal creature he couldn't control was tense, waiting to swoop in and unseat his higher thought processes if he disobeyed Overlord's rules, but humiliating or not, Vortex preferred obedience to _that_. He stayed quiet and still while his gestalt-bond's demands for contact grew louder and louder, because Overlord drew closer and closer. One fraction of an inch at the time, but his maxed-out proximity sensors felt every sliver of that changing distance.

It was like that wonderful, terrible, almost-close-enough, teasing fingertip held out of reach, one burst of pleading away. Only this time it wasn't the subtle warmth of living metal or the tiny whisper of an electromagnetic field. There was an avalanche of not-quite-touching at his back. It was a tormenting monument to 'if you just lean a bit.'

And oh, how horribly tempting that was. The purely metallic instinct in him divided between the desperate, trained need to obey and remain still - because it was safe, it was _sure_, because Overlord had made it clear that was what he should _do_ - and the desire to grab that withheld contact as hard as he could. Not that he could physically reach out and fulfill his visceral need for interaction, but his deep code was very willing to break the 'no speaking' rule and beg if it'd get that elusive touch. At the same time, _nothing_ could cow his internal beast into total compliance like the EM field currently washing over him.

In retrospect, he probably should have known the way it would end and thrown his helm back or something. Just to make a statement, inasmuch as that was even possible at this point. His statement was that he was desperate and grabbing after anything he could get. That wasn't new.

He had been concentrating too much on the infinitesimal distance, in the heat of the ex-venting against the back of his helm, and on the sounds of Overlord's systems. He didn't notice one hand slowly rising. He was so distracted he didn't even notice the movement until a huge palm pressed onto his rotor hub.

Vortex's helm whipped back so hard something snapped in his neck, sending a fantastic burst of pain down his back struts to burst against the chill horror shooting up them. The combination spurted out his vocalizer in a humiliating blurt of noise, somewhere between a yelp and static.

The looming presence at his back stepped away, the tantalizing almost-touching disappearing like it'd never been, and Vortex's entire ventilation system froze up. The heavy footsteps resumed circled him until the huge triple-changer faced him again.

And Overlord _looked_ at him. After the long, long period isolated here being trained to bend before this mecha's every whim, Vortex didn't need more than that look. He could translate it quite well. Spoke words were unnecessary. He could practically hear how the slight purse of those lips indicated a slight sigh of displeasure, and the half-shuttered optics declared to Vortex, and the universe, that Overlord was disappointed. Not mildly annoyed, no. Overlord was outright disappointed. Vortex had _not obeyed_, and Overlord didn't have time to bother with disobedience.

It was a look that asked in big bold letters, '**Why am I wasting my time with you?**'

It was a look that proclaimed that Overlord had reached the end of his patience. It said, '_I am going to leave you in this place. Alone. No, I'm not sure if I'll return._'

Despair didn't even begin to describe what Vortex felt. A thousand scenarios ran through his mind, clawing after a plausible solution and finding nothing at all. His systems switched to high gear in panic, struggling against the statis protocols futilely, and a pitiful whimper left his vocalizer. Anytime, anytime now, Overlord was going to give up on him and leave through that door, because he had _failed_ to follow the newest order. He'd failed to comply, and now the training would start over _if_ he was lucky, _if_ Overlord didn't decide to abandon him here permanently. Vortex didn't know which it would be, and he couldn't risk disobeying further in order to ask. The fragger was going to leave, and he'd be alone here for Primus knew how long, and he wasn't going to get a bubble-pop -

Wait.

Vortex's mind was fighting off his core program-code by sheer will already, but now his logic hubs rose from the depth of his processor like a pissed-off shuttle emerging from particularly dense atmosphere. It shouldered aside the mindless metal beast trying to display submission and took over instead. It shot queries to his system logs and long-term memory files, queuing up the weight of evidence to smash his conscience with rational argument.

The panicking internal creature was firmly sat upon while Vortex held a talk with himself. _'Hello, personality component. See this file, here? Remember this? It's that guy you interrogated a couple hundred vorns ago. Yeah, him. The tough Autobot who'd been convinced he could take anything because his unit was all frontliners and built for combat? That worked out for him, didn't it? See how he squirmed and begged? Good. Now, may I have your attention for this current system report? This one, too. Okay, see the parallel? Looks familiar, doesn't it? Good. Now, let's have a short review of your field experience regarding conditioned behavior. There we go. See what's going on? See what's been done to you? Good. Glad we've had this talk, self.'_

_'I know what is happening.'_ Vortex clung to that thought like a lifeline as he turned his attention outward again.

He'd known what Overlord had been doing to him, but he hadn't stopped to think what it was the officer wanted to accomplish. This wasn't random torture. This wasn't incarceration with a bored mecha training him for entertainment's sake. This was structured, intentional breaking meant to turn him into whatever the scrapheap wanted in the end.

The panic he felt wasn't real. Well, it was, but not for real panic-worthy reasons. He was being manipulated into changing himself to suit this fat-lipped glitch, but he _knew_ the symptoms of conditioning because he had done this to mecha from the other side of the equation. This? What was being done to him wasn't punishment. It was discipline. He'd been panicking because the treatment had convinced him he'd been devalued to the point where his only worth was as Overlord's toy. That wasn't _true_, but the best way to reprogram mecha's core beliefs was destroy their sense of self-worth and destabilize them. Overlord had successfully tricked Vortex through those hoops by isolating him and fiddling with what made a combiner team work, but this was still incarceration. The purpose was to turn out a disciplined soldier, not use him as an amusement.

Megatron wouldn't mail him to this fragging bubble-blanket psycho just to get him slagged in a creative way! Overlord could isolate him, put him into statis, torture him, or throw all the orders in the galaxy at him if he wanted - but he couldn't deactivate him. Statis lock…yes, even under his newfound determination and courage, Vortex wobbled as terror surged at the thought of the Box, but he _would_ be returned to the Combaticons. Overlord would be forced to reactivate him eventually. Dismembering Bruticus was far too stupid even for Megatron to consider.

So pouty-lips could threaten him with whatever he wanted, but that didn't change matters. If he could reason through the trained fear and keep aloof, he'd outlast whatever outlandishly long length of time Overlord had been granted. The mecha had done everything possible to take away Vortex's ability to measure time. His gestalt links craved what he'd been manipulated into wanting. He just had to regain control of the triggers. Touch he couldn't do much about, but that wasn't special. Mecha coming out of solitary confinement were clingy. He'd probably spend a few weeks pinning Swindle down for cuddles, since the little Jeep was the least likely to be able to throw him off immediately.

The sound was going to be the killer. From Vortex's revised viewpoint, however, the sound wasn't important. He had to keep the facts in the forefront of his mind, and the fact was that he didn't _need_ it. His gestalt links were deprived and newly addicted, but like any addiction, it could be broken with sufficient willpower. It was just an insignificant displacement of air. Frag that! He could make his _own_ noise! A sound was a sound and could be replaced by any sound, for all his twitchy code cared.

He would show this fool just what a smart idea it was to try conditioning a mech to a trigger based on sound. The drone-reject had gone through an enormous amount of effort to isolate and train him to the noise without disabling his recording equipment!

In the midst of the hot mess of _need-want_ compulsion up around his logic hubs, Vortex searched frantically for an audio file. Claws of _need_ tried to tear control from him, and he pulled out a file at last with the feeling of starving mecha finding a hidden emergency ration.

Trembling, choking down the need to start pleading, he played it for himself.

'Pop.'

The orgasmic tidal wave of reward completely failed to happen. He played it again louder.

_'Pop!'_

Nothing.

Triumph and relief became lost causes, as if they were sucked down a drain while he tried to catch them with frantic fingers. Desperation constricted his intakes tight. The _ache_! It pressed down on the top of his cortex, throbbed inside his processor, and pulsed under every thought! He couldn't shake it off, and it was getting _worse_. The burning need raged through him unabated, and the recording had triggered absolutely nothing. It'd fallen flat, just another noise from overused memory files.

His logic hubs sourly reminded him that it'd always _been_ just a noise. That didn't make him want it any less at all, but he seized that bit of logic like it'd anchor him in an objective perception of what was happening here.

His vents tried frantically to open and shut, pathetic _flop-flop_s as his engine revved in core-deep panic, but Vortex dug mental heels in to fight the raving, desperate beast inside him made up of support structure instinct and deprived gestalt links. He could endure. He had to. Okay, rational thought time. All he had to do was stop looking at the fragger. The _need_ washing across the back of his visor was trying to obscure any sensible solution. It felt terrible, but it would eventually have to fade. Addictions were like that. It was going to be a walk through the Pit with busted knee joints giving up his bubble-fix, but it was something he could do. He _could._

He just had to look away from the Decepticon standing in front of him. The Combaticon dropped his chin and glared down at the floor instead. Even if he didn't fight the craving - and he wanted _wanted __**wanted**_ not to fight so bad, his inner code-creature was _such_ a well-trained beast - Overlord still wouldn't be able to frag with his mind if Vortex concentrated on -

He saw the movement. He couldn't have missed it if he'd had Blitzwing sitting on the back of his head. Overlord's helm cocked to one side, and the miniscule movement was accompanied by an unreadable smirk. Maddeningly full lips slowly spread into a smile that caused Vortex's spark to look for a hiding spot. The triple-changer took a step closer.

The helicopter's systems _howled_. His very circuitry crawled, scrabbling under his armor like an army of Insecticons had infected him, because even his slagging fuel pump knew what a step closer meant. This mecha approaching him had taken him through this dance so many times, Vortex's body knew the steps by spark. Coming closer had always meant that it was time for him to be an obedient, disciplined, respectful prisoner. If he was good and followed the rules, then that step closer meant that the _need_ would stop.

His resolve crumbled, baked to a burnt crisp that flaked around the edges the longer Vortex failed to concentrate on the floor instead of the Decepticon in front of him.

Then Overlord paused before him, like he had so many times before, and a hand leisurely rose to hover before him, and _yes_. The Combaticon's logic hubs went a bit melty, reasons becoming mush as the ache surged to a psuedo-pain that had his visor blazing bright red. He panted in lust for the caress of that fingertip. It was so close. It stopped just before grazing his helm, just like every time, suspending him in that agonizing moment right before he'd feel what he was trying _so fragging hard to ignore_.

Overlord leaned a fraction closer, bending slightly, and - and -

The triple-changer's right hand swung across Vortex's stubbornly downward line-of-sight, and Vortex's visor almost involuntarily followed it as it reached down to one side - to one side where -

Oh, _Primus_ have mercy, because Overlord certainly wouldn't. Vortex couldn't have torn his gaze away with a crowbar. The massive hand plucked the roll of discarded plastic bubbles from the floor, raising it with slow inevitability to be held, tantalizing and sadistic, before his feverish visor.

The howl from Vortex's systems hiccupped. Part of his processor still strained for that hand held just out of reach, but his visor locked on the bubbles. They glistened in the light from his visor, like shining droplets of crimson liquid.

Overlord turned the roll between his fingers, peeling one layer away from the main roll, and Vortex's head bobbed to follow the shiny plastic. His mind protested how stupid he must look, but pride had no defense against the piteously needy thing that lived underneath his conscious thoughts. Those tiny air pockets were its world. His optic sensors lit a strained white when two huge fingers singled out a bubble, and it was all Vortex could do not to moan. He knew what was coming, and he wasn't sure he was strong enough to resist. It felt like logic had dribbled out of his head to puddle, forgotten, at his feet.

He didn't need it. It was just a noise, just a fragging noise. A noise that didn't mean anything, really. It was nothing but air and plastic, in the end. Why would a bursting bubble liquefy his back struts? And that fingertip, it - it - would just barely brush his helm. It was more a meeting of electromagnetic energy than an actual touch, and he'd had _plenty_ of that today compared to what he was used to! His sensor network had practically gorged itself! The glut totally neutralized any further contact, surely. Anything he got from that fingertip right now would have to be less -

_Squeak. Squeeeek-nyk._ The fingers caressed the bubble so lightly and impossibly gentle. It made the tiniest noise. A loud vent would drown it out.

It was _just a noise!_ Just a noise, just a _noise_, justanoise, justanoise-justanoise-_justanoise_ -

Full lips smiled, positioned to be perfectly visible between the officer's raised hands. It was a trifecta of banal horrors the Combaticon's whole body lurched to see: the fingertip poised to touch his visor, that sinister smile, and the delicately captured bubble in the other hand.

The rich voice added a fourth sickening element to the mix. "Vortex," Overlord said in a terrifyingly neutral tone. "Choose."

A choice. A choice? No. Oh no.

Vortex wanted to scream until his vocalizer gave out, but he didn't, because silence was _right_. A good subordinate, a well-trained mecha who knew his place and did as he was told, would be quiet unless giving Overlord the demanded answer. Nothing more, nothing less, and although it was too late, the 'copter paralyzed inside his plastic bindings still desperately resorted to the relative safety of that training. Just look what happened when silly Decepticons disobeyed, after all. His machine operation code rebelled violently, ripping him into reverse so fast he'd have gotten whiplash if he were actually moving. Even his conscious mind backpedaled furiously all of a sudden, absolutely appalled by the choice he was faced with.

He clicked helplessly instead of speaking, frantic for clarification, though it took him only an astrosecond to understand. Because he was being pulled in two directions by two forces so strong that it felt like they'd tear him apart. They had been the driving forces behind his actions for weeks (months?!) now. And now he had to choose...what? What he wanted? What he had to forsake? Which was the right answer? What did Overlord _want_ him to say?

A subtle huff of annoyance flared the triple-changer's vents, and the smile fell to something far less amused. "Neither?" he asked, lip curling into a sneer as he straightened and started to pull away. "Very well, as you wish."

"**No**, nonono, **wait**, no **please** -" Vortex's babbling broke with a burst of static. He thrashed against the restraints, barely twitching inside the plastic, and he keened, a long wail of binary beeps trailing off pathetically.

The Combaticon stared into Overlord's optics, and whatever defiance he had been attempting amounted to exactly nothing. There was no reasoning away with 'just-a-noise' reminders, no pings issued by his logic hub, no rationalization of addiction. There was only desperation and the acid-burn need to obey, to just comply, because _nothing_ meant anything right now but the mecha in front of him. Because what was being taken away were the only things keeping him from losing his mind completely to his own glitched-up gestalt code, and they only came from Overlord's hands.

He had failed. He'd thought he could withstand it, but he'd been wrong, and now he was _also_ failing to answer a question, and _he_ would take it all away, and - and Vortex was _so fragging sorry_. The pleading poured from him without thought. "...please, please. Just - please don't - " he couldn't stop muttering between little staticky clicks of distress.

Overlord paused, his hands still as pillars. He stood silent for a klik while the trapped, cornered mecha's vocalizer wavered unsteadily, delivering a stream of debased pleas. After Vortex hit a certain pitch of desperation, that plush mouth curled up at the corners into a deceptively gentle smile. "Do be more polite in the future, Vortex. Speak when you are spoken to, and answer my questions in a timely manner. Understood?"

The pleading dropped into staticky, broken, but frantically hopeful assurance. Hopeful because the triple-changer's words implied that this pet project was going to continue, and right now, that was the best thing Vortex had ever heard. "Y-yes, Overlord sir, please, please…Overlord sir, I'm sorry, i-it won't happen again, just please - please don't - I-I'll do better - "

The words were thick with self-hatred and despair. Overlord drank in Vortex's revulsion and graciously nodded acknowledgment. "I'm glad we understand one another. Now…which one?"

He opened both hands above the rotary mecha's head as if he was about to impart a blessing, and Vortex almost sobbed in gratitude. Because, honestly? That was precisely what it felt like. Shivering violently, he turned his helm towards Overlord's right hand. His vocalizer reset over and over again, trying to get it to spit something other than static.

"Please, th-that. Overlord sir. Please," Vortex said, very mindful of his manners now. His voice stayed high-pitched and still more than a little pleading, and it was bitter torture feeling the officer's left hand fold away. His circuitry strained after the other mecha's EM field, and he whined thinly because he knew that it would be _incomplete_. He'd had to choose. He'd been a bad subordinate, but Overlord was magnanimous. Overlord was allowing him to keep one. Just...just one.

One was better than none.

His visor was stuck to the plastic sheet. He couldn't see anything else; he couldn't _think_ of anything else. His audios were dialed up so high in anticipation that his own fuel pump sounded like a rhythmic thundering.

"Do you want it?" Overlord asked, holding the bubble he had singled right before Vortex's visor. The shining plastic bulging around his fingers was so close it nearly filled the Combaticon's field of view.

The familiar phrasing made him fall all over himself with eagerness. "Yes, **yes**! Please, Overlord **sir**, yes! Yes, I want it, please - "

"And why should you get it, Vortex?" The words were punctuated by minute press-and-release movements of the fingertips compressing that tiny air chamber. Each teensy motion had the helicopter's undivided attention, and Overlord stopped talking to squish the bubble until Vortex's overridden ventilation system auto-activated, going back to cycling with a body-shaking shudder as it forced the Combaticon to start breathing again.

Overlord shook his head, chuckling for a second in amusement before continuing. " I told you not to move, and you **disobeyed** my order. Why should I give this to you?"

Vortex's vents almost indented as they all tried to clamp closed past where their specs allowed. The action was the only defensive one possible for him, being wrapped as he was, and it was an involuntary fear-reaction he didn't even notice.

"I-I - I - " Every cable in his frame trembled, tensed taut. There wasn't an answer in all the galaxy for that question. He couldn't think of anything to say that would be good enough, but he'd been _asked a question_. Overlord expected to be answered, and Primus help him if he failed that expectation again. "I, sir, I...I..." The words tumbled out even as he wracked his mind for something to say. "I need it, I - "

That was clearly not the right answer, as Overlord's optics dulled in annoyance. Why would the Combaticon's needs matter to him? Vortex was a pet project, a mere work-in-progress, and he'd take what Overlord decided to give him. Needs and wants were privileges of the free. Prisoners and bad subordinates took what they were given and were grateful they got that much, if they were halfway intelligent. Dictating his needs to Overlord was presumptuous and rude, and disapproval wrote in large font across the officer's face in response.

Vortex felt the ground beneath his plastic-wrapped feet disappear, and his tanks dropped into the bottomless Pit left beneath him. "No, no wait, please, I'm sorry! **I'm ****_sorry!_**"

This time it _was_ a scream. Vortex heard himself say it, _scream_ it without a shred of pride, and he all but suffocated in humiliation. And the garrot twisted around his feebly struggling mind was the knowledge that it was true. Under the blubbering of his deep-code, Vortex's conscious mind bowed and bent and finally surrendered. He _was_ sorry.

He had tortured and interrogated professionally for more vorns than not. He had murdered for the fun of it and flirted with his frame still splattered with other mecha's energon. He had never felt sorry for any of it. Ever. Regrets were for other mecha, he'd always thought.

So he'd thought, but he'd thought wrong. He was extremely sorry.

The problem with regrets was that they appeared after the fact. Vortex was sorry, so very sorry, but he knew how the short training ritual went. The rules were there for a reason. He wasn't to speak until spoken to, but he was to quickly answer any question asked him. He was to be respectful, and he was to stay still until ordered to move. He either obeyed every rule to the letter and got his reward, or he disobeyed and no amount of apologizing would redeem him.

Except for those rare instances of leniency when he'd apparently convinced Overlord of _how much_ he regretted his poor behavior. He recognized those slivers of hope for the elegantly crafted tools of torture they were, because even knowing that begging forgiveness likely wouldn't help, he was still going to try. He was going to grovel, and he couldn't even summon more than a sludgy smear of self-loathing for how low he'd fallen.

Vortex was a very sorry mecha right now.

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	11. Chapter 11

**.**

**0 0 Part Eleven 0 0**

**.**

It was charming, Overlord thought. The results of every project had their own appeal, but this particular labor was bearing plentiful fruit. He watched the little rotary cheeping like a wounded technimal, and he stood back to enjoy the meek chirps of a broken spirit. Nothing was quite as intoxicating as that moment when a spark marched to the tune of his whims, and this one was just beginning to do so, one choked supplication at a time. A heady rush of power filled him at how readily they were coming, too.

Overlord was indeed the best at what he did.

"Sorry? You are **sorry**, Vortex?" Oh, did he relish when his victims brightened at the thought that they might have said the right thing. Said the magic words that would _please_ him, because it ground in just that much deeper that they were aware it was now their highest goal in life.

It was even more entertaining to listen to the copter grovel. Not for the words - they were just 'sir' and 'please' strung together in varied combinations - but to hear that superimposed over the Combaticon's EM field was like the taste of hundred vorn old high-grade. Every single word was highlighted with dense hatred, every pause backlit by a marvelous flash of humiliation. The longer he made the 'copter repeat himself, the harder the little flier grit his teeth and the more he lost control of his EM field.

Because rage and humiliation were not all that there was to that pretty EM field. The longer Overlord drew this out, the more it fought free of Vortex's battered pride to strain toward him. He felt the rotary's _need_ winning, pushing aside the hate, and that satisfied him greatly. He had seeded that desperation, patiently fed it and kept it strong. Now it was rooted straight into the 'copter's mind, and soon it would grow and bloom into a beautiful, disciplined obedience.

_Perfect_ obedience.

Overlord knew that the Combaticon was still fighting the conditioning. Even though the mecha already responded well to direct _and_ implied orders, there was only a hint of surrender in that EM field. Resignation lay like a corrosive scum over Vortex's circuitry, but that wasn't enough. Given his position in the Decepticon ranks, the interrogator had more tools than most available to fight or bend around Overlord's work. The triple-changer assumed that Vortex would use them all. He _hoped_ the rotary would. Understanding what was being done to him spiced the Combaticon's whole experience with humiliation, rather than the usual numb confusion Overlord's other subjects tasted.

However, obedience grudgingly given was as easy to lose as it was to obtain. Any Decepticon officer with a big gun could make their underlings follow orders, but unless they put more into it than just barking loud enough, most of those officers would have a bleeding hole in their backs as soon as they turned around. Decent officers made sure that their units had reason not to scrap them at the first opportunity. Troops who wanted their superior alive and in charge tended to make sure that state of affairs remained in place. That usually happened either because of the perks resulting from working under such an officer, or because of the repercussions from the hole in said officer's back being not quite deep enough to create a job opening.

Perfect obedience came about through exploring those repercussions until mecha knew to the exact, sickening, frightening, and excruciating detail what would happen if they disobeyed. Even if the officer was disarmed, unconscious, and helpless, perfect obedience ensured that his grunts would drag his statis-locked body off to a medic. That was the power of conditioning.

There was also loyalty, but that was something no sane Decepticon in any kind of rank relied on. Assuming a unit was loyal only meant the troops were good actors. An officer who trusted loyalty above intensive training didn't stay an officer for long.

The towering triple-changer rubbed the bubble he was holding a tad bit harder, making it squeak almost inaudibly. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as Vortex's engines hitched. The rotary mecha's pleas came in a steady murmur now, and he was totally enthralled by the tiny plastic air pocket in Overlord's fingers. From time to time, the optic sensors behind that visor of red glass flickered as Vortex stole glances at the officer's face.

Overlord savored the starved longing in the electromagnetic field trying to clamp itself around its owner and failing miserably. Vortex's coding would drive him to cling to Overlord no matter what he himself wanted, and the triple-changer's power plant thrummed gloating pleasure for the pathetically needy EM field reaching toward him.

Perfect obedience didn't require loyalty. It didn't require a concrete incentive or a corporal punishment of any kind. If Overlord had to raise a hand to coerce the 'copter physically, then it wasn't perfect obedience. No, what Overlord was training into this cheeping, clicking Combaticon was the core-deep conditioning for action/reaction, cause and response.

The end result would be that disobedience would become the scariest thing in the universe; the repercussions would inescapable because Vortex himself would mete out the punishment. By the time Overlord finished with him, the 'copter would fall apart at the mere idea of not doing what he was told. Even surrounded by his gestalt, Vortex would be unable to stop how his support structure code turned on him, lashing his mind like whips of self-flagellation. Absolute compliance would be ingrained into him as a self-sufficient reason. Obedience would be the only safe refuge for his conditioned mind, which would need no actual reward but a comparatively blissful state of complete certainty. Orders would be obeyed because they simply had to be done.

No questions, doubts, or personal motives would be attached to that obedience. _Perfect_ obedience.

A smile graced Overlord's lips, and the Combaticon snapped so rigid he started vibrating inside his plastic bindings with the tension. The larger Decepticon gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Vortex's engine _keened_. The pleading rose in pitch and turned revoltingly grateful. Self-hatred rolled under the words like waves along an ocean of submission.

Overlord contemplated the quivering mecha for a moment, anticipation making his optics flare briefly brighter. Vortex blinked up at him, trying to interpret that flare as good or bad, trying to guess what would happen next, and the triple-changer almost laughed. Just thinking about the screaming to come made his engines turn over with pleasure, and his project startled at the sound. Nerves had the little 'copter twitching.

That only increased Overlord's enjoyment of the whole situation, and his smile stretched wide. He raised his other hand and gently smoothed the plastic sheet he was holding back onto the roll.

"Today," Overlord said, and Vortex froze, so rigid he didn't even vibrate. Even his engine stuttered to a halt. Overlord stared down into the Combaticon's visor, now so bright it burned white around the edges. He wondered, amused, if the helicopter's fuel pump might have stopped as well. "This," he continued, grazing the edge of the plastic bubble-blanket with a single finger, "is enough for you." The wrapping now only reached up to the the smaller mecha's chest, but that was enough to keep him still.

Not even a shudder ran through the paralyzed frame this time as Overlord turned and strode toward the door, stopping only to lean the roll of plastic against the wall. Then he left the room with the perpetually unlocked door without a look back.

A soft sound of disbelief followed him out. It morphed quickly into panicked words trying to call him back. That became a prolonged shriek as it hit Vortex that he _wasn't_ coming back. That Vortex was being left to face the consequences of disobedience, something that had become the Combaticon's private nightmare.

Yes, there was still a long way to go before this pet project was done with. But once it was, submission would be so hard-coded into Vortex's processor that the Combaticon wouldn't be able to tell the moment he stopped obeying for the sake of a plastic reward. The bubblewrap was a cute method of transference, but soon Vortex would bend to Overlord's whims sheerly for obedience sake. Disobedience...well, disobedience soon wouldn't be an option, in Vortex's mind.

The officer paused when he heard the retching sound of a tank being purged amidst the wailing. The helicopter's body had already reached that point, it seemed, and was punishing the mecha. The mind would soon follow.

Not yet, but soon.

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	12. Chapter 12

**.**

**0 0 Part Twelve 0 0**

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Vortex looked up. He looked down, then to the left. He bowed his head and remained like that. He'd keep his helm down until told otherwise.

"Left," Overlord ordered lazily. The officer spoke while stand right outside Vortex's field of view. He couldn't see the triple-changer's face, but there was a faint air of amusement in his voice. It made Vortex's coolant boil as he turned left, once more. He'd been reduced to an object of entertainment. "Up."

He did as he was told, but Vortex's mind puzzled furiously around his situation in the meantime. The pointless instructions were nothing more than a nuisance, a distraction trying to provoke him into violating the more important, unspoken instruction: stillness. Stillness at any cost, unless or until he was verbally instructed to move.

Shortly after Overlord unwrapped him partway, a pattern emerged to the surface. Or rather, Vortex noticed a structure the sadistic slagger used. The hulking officer left him with implicit standing orders, then verbally demanded he break them - but only on Overlord's terms. Vortex was to remain silent until he was prompted to plead for the noise. He was to stay still until he was told to move. Any violation of the rules _without_Overlord's approval earned the 'copter more of that dreaded solitude, apparently that he might think about his crimes.

It'd only taken him one hesitation when the orders began to decide that being an entertainment was better than being ignored. Obedience was the better option.

Overlord spoke again, and Vortex grudgingly moved. Right, left, up. Left, down, ahead. Up, and pause for the triple-changer to walk a slow circuit around him as if on inspection. Vortex tensed and kept his visor fixed on the ceiling obediently, resisting the immediate urge to look at the moving object in his peripheral vision. That would be a violation of the last order given him - look up - and therefore he wouldn't do it. When Overlord finished two whole circles around him, there was a soft grunt that almost sounded like approval, and Vortex hated how his fuel pump skipped to hear it. He'd passed the test!

Fraggit.

The orders started again, and the 'copter followed each one. The amused edge in that rich voice thickened. _'Who's a good cyberpup, Vortex? You are, yes, you are.'_

It might as well have been said aloud, except he doubted Overlord would give him even that much praise...or credit for that matter. The short test had been a statement, much like everything had been since his arrival to this personalized Pit. Overlord might as well have been holding a neon sign that read, _'My wish is your command.'_ Actually, Vortex felt it was more like the words were being carved into his plating with very blunt instruments. Upside down, so he could read them easily. They saturated every single word the officer said, and the Combaticon was getting the message loud and clear.

It was worrying. This wasn't how conditioning was imparted.

Overlord paced around him once more, and Vortex tensed again. It had been more than seven breems since the session had started, and a needy hope was starting to coil inside him. Because, of course, he'd been an obedient subordinate, and his core code knew that obedient subordinates earned favor from their officer. This officer. Whom Vortex's internal metal creature wanted so very badly to please, yes it did.

He seethed at his by-now familiar reaction, but he didn't hate it half as much as he hated the other mecha in the room. The 'copter desperately turned inward to his own thoughts again. He knew what was going to happen, but that didn't mean he couldn't try to block it out or at least distract himself from the inevitable.

And that was the worrying part. He recognized what was going on as instrumental conditioning. One of its characteristics was that sentient beings didn't like it. Cybertronians, like any other intelligent species, didn't like to know they were being changed. So they fought the changes. He _knew_that, because he was a professional mindfragger. One fact he'd been taught early in his career was that hard-coded respondent conditioning only integrated correctly into base code if the subject wasn't completely aware of it. It had to be slipped past the conscious mind disguised by what mecha _thought_ was going on.

The most common response from a correctly conditioned mecha was confusion, because what the subject thought was going on had nothing to do with what was really happening. The behavior modifications or changes to a mecha's mind settled into program support code while the subject's thoughts were busy with things like pain, pleasure, or trying to resist the overt attempts that'd covered the real efforts. By the time mecha realized something else had happened, the conditioning had already fooled his original code into accepting the foreign modifications that had been disguised as data produced by the local logic hub. Such changes had to be slipped in, otherwise purging software kept trying to erase it -

Vortex's train of thought interrupted itself abruptly when one of Overlord's strides closed the circuit slightly. The triple-changer's pace didn't change, but he was now close enough that Vortex could almost _feel_ the smug pleasure radiating from the fragger. The slow circle surrounded him in it.

The irritating commands were steadily more spaced, just daring him to move before the next one was given.

Up.

Down.

Ahead.

Frag Overlord's rusted officer aft and frag his waste-scrap orders.

The ache burnt hot in his sensor network. His internal beast - frag, his internal _parts_ - strained toward that tantalizingly near electromagnetic field, hungry for more, but he told himself it wasn't time. There were still more orders left to be drawn out, more pacing to try tricking him into disobedience, more condescending head tilts and gloating optics watching him from the corner of his visor. Those facts didn't make his spark seize any less.

It was the hope. Hope was a horrible thing.

But it wasn't time yet. The hope was building, yes, because Vortex was being such a good little Decepticon, but it wasn't time yet.

He dragged his reluctant thoughts back to sentience and - conditioning. How Overlord was doing it wrong, letting him see every step he was being put through, like a cyberhound going through the paces in front of a trainer. It didn't make any sense, however. A cyberhound couldn't comprehend what the training was doing to its mind; Vortex could. Vortex could tell the slagger knew what he was doing. He hated to admit it, but the Combaticon could recognize a superior in his field. He also could recognize aimless mindfragging, and this was not it. So what was the purpose of a skilled mecha like this sabotaging his own work this way?

Then Overlord stopped in front of him, and all thought went crashing down to the floor. Vortex almost panted with anticipation.

Because there was this on top of everything. This was the other part he couldn't understand. Well, he could in a way; _this_ was clearly mindfragging. Overlord turned to leisurely stroll toward the door, and Vortex's vents _flop-flop_ped against his bindings as the precious roll of bubble-blanket was retrieved from the wall beside the door. It didn't make sense, however, because - because _smelt him_, this was _not_ how conditioning worked!

Overlord returned with the plastic in-hand, and Vortex's world abruptly narrowed to the large hand holding that roll of bubblewrap. His frame stilled completely, and his EM field _surged_ as if to meet a lover. He wanted to plead with Overlord. Not his corrupted deep-code: he, himself, Vortex. _He_ did. He wanted to plead so much, so terribly much. He knew he did, he loathed himself for it, but the only reason he didn't go ahead and beg anyway was because he knew that would only tip the scales. Right now, he'd been an obedient subordinate who'd passed the latest round of training, and therefore he had grounds to hope.

He hoped. Please, please Primus let that hand keep holding onto that wondrously horrid plastic wrap! All his need and almost-but-not-quite aching pain focused on the hope that maybe this time, Overlord would -

The officer swept him with a critical look and turned right back around to walk toward the door again. A stifled sound of agony came from the immobilized 'copter as Vortex watched him bend to prop the roll of bubblewrap against the doorframe. Not again. It wouldn't happen again, and Vortex grieved with a disappointment so fierce it twisted painfully inside his tanks. Overlord placed the bubbles just a bit further away this time, and that made it somehow worse.

Whether or not he was worthy of a reward was not for him to decide, in the end. The Combaticon could only obey every order given him out of hope that he'd be judged good enough for the teensy, stupid, beloved pop of a bubble - and he'd fallen short somehow this session.

He swallowed down the purge-bitter words that wanted to escape, to humbly ask his officer, trainer, and tormentor what he'd done wrong. Had he been slow? Had he not turned his head far enough, or tipped his chin up too far? He'd improve next time, he truly would, if Overlord would just deign to tell him how he'd failed!

But, no. No, it was up to Vortex to figure out what he'd done that hadn't been perfectly obedient to orders.

It gave him something to obsess about between sessions, at least. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't boredom. He knew he'd dissect every moment of this session until he understood his shortcoming. And then he'd carve it out of his abused spark and mind one degrading, forced submission at a time, because the alternative was Overlord denying him the bubble-burst, and he'd do anything to get his addiction-fix.

The massive triple-changer walked back toward him sedately, every movement deliberately slow as if he was just waiting for Vortex to snap and start talking. The 'copter locked down his vocalizer and endured another torturously slow circuit around him until the officer stood in front of him again. The hand that should have given him that popping noise instead reached out to him. It slid over the top of his helm until the palm covered half his head.

The stroke should have felt wonderful. It once had. Technically, it still did. It still made his plating tingle and his circuitry dance with electromagnetic energy that wiggled his energy field like a cyberpup, because it was interaction, glorious interaction. His sensors gorged on every iota of pressure, every foreign touch of energy, and tamped his statis protocols safely to the bottom of his priority queue - but it wasn't enough. It wasn't what he _needed_.

The stroke over his helm was just what Overlord felt like giving him today. That all-pervasive statement? It was still right there. Everything in these little sessions of control and power told Vortex, _'My wish is your command. I will give you what I feel like giving you, when I feel like doing so. If I do at all.'_

It mocked his artificially-created desires. Overlord had crafted the circumstances to culture Vortex's crazed _need_, and now he was toying with the Combaticon's false cravings. Two weeks ago (days, months, years?), a couple seconds of contact had been enough to command instant obedience and make him reel in its wake. Vortex had debased himself pleading for the touch to be just a fraction longer. Now the slagger patted and stroked him everywhere, caressing every uncovered speck of his plating until he decided the 'copter had been given enough of a reward, and Vortex tolerated it because it was the only scrap his writhing subconscious needy beast was being tossed.

Overlord fragging well _knew_ the touching no longer fulfilled Vortex's painstakingly warped needs. It didn't matter how much the hands touched him, it didn't _work_ anymore. Without the bubble-noise, it was incomplete. Overlord wasn't rewarding him by touching him anymore; he was claiming the Combaticon. The thorough petting was a statement of ownership.

The officer controlled him on every level. Vortex had thought he'd been brought slavishly low by obeying the rules in order to get his touch and tiny sound, but that had been positively free compared to how he obeyed Overlord's every whim just for the _hope_ of a reward.

The microscopic part of Vortex that hadn't shriveled to a twitchy mass of frustration banged its metaphorical head against the inside of his helm._This!_ This was another action that made no sense! Why would Overlord undercut the conditioning like this?! Why give him mixed signals? It confused a clear-cut order/response/reward reaction chain. Vortex _knew_ he was answering like he should. The lack of anticipated reward only threw the conditioned response into doubt, making him wonder if he was doing what he was supposed to do. Primus! It was a simple enough equation: stimulus + response = reward. The reward reinforced the correct behavior, making the choice of obedience more obvious and desirable the next time the stimulus occurred. Take away one half of that equation, however, and the whole process went to the Pit!

This...didn't make sense at all. He should have gotten the bubble. He _should_ have. Regardless of whatever random criteria he'd failed to fulfill this session, he had not disobeyed. Disobedience meant isolation and deprivation. Obedience meant he should get rewarded. It was a black and white equation, and this muddled grey area where he was denied a reward weakened the whole conditioning attempt.

Large fingers scratched gently on the uncovered top half of his rotor hub, and he shivered slightly. Pleasure mixed with swelling frustration as his mind kicked at that thought.

Whatever game Overlord was playing, it was flawed. Not invalidated, not so long as the reward made an erratic appearance to reinforce the faulty equation, but seriously flawed. Vortex's visor widened, brightening to a fiery red. It _was_ a _flaw_. Overlord was making a mistake, and mistakes could be exploited. _Every_ mistake was exploitable. Every. Single. One.

He tried to keep the excitement from taking over his EM field - not that hard given that the stroking just kept on and it wasn't like his frustration with that had gone down _at all_ - and started turning the data around in his mind. There had to be a way to take advantage of the flaw. The equation was incomplete. Overlord's mistake had put wiggle-room into what should have been a set-in-titanium behavioral guideline. True conditioning left the subject no other choice but compliance, but this particular equation left Vortex an _option._

Kliks passed until slowly, just as deliberately as Overlord had left the roll of bubblewrap by the door, Vortex turned his helm. He turned it to glare at Overlord out of the corner of his visor.

The hands fondling his frame instantly stopped. "Vortex," Overlord chided, circling around behind the rotary mecha to confront him directly. That made Vortex turn his helm the opposite direction, reaffirming that this was defiance, not desperation. Vortex was through losing control and groveling for what Overlord should have known to give him. Well, now it was time for the Combaticon to exploit the opening Overlord had been foolish enough to leave.

The triple-changer folded his arms and shook his head as he spoke, voice sorrowful. "I thought we had gone over this already." He made a _'tsk-tsk'_ noise: oh, so sad that his pet project hadn't learned.

The slagged pile of rust was _tsk_ing at him. _He would fragging kill the glitchhead one day!_

Instead of roaring his anger, Vortex simply glared at him before pointedly looking to the roll leaning against the doorframe. "I had," and he paused for what he hoped sounded like effect and in truth was his vocalizer fighting like a cornered retrorat against his own panicking code-beast, "chosen that." His support structure was shrieking in fear, clawing at his programs, and the Combaticon's visor flickered as he fought it off. "Sir," he added after a long moment, because there was only so much ground he could win against himself.

"And you will receive exactly what I decide you are worthy to receive."

There was annoyance in the taller mech's tone and - oh, Primus spare him - disapproval, too. He was disappointing Overlord. He was a bad subordinate Decepticon who'd disappointed his officer. Vortex's spark tried its level best to escape from its casing, mainly to go grovel at the triple-changer's feet.

And now Overlord turned to retrieve the roll of bubblewrap from the door, and he was unrolling it, unwinding a long strip, and oh _frag._Fragfragfragfrag. _What had he been thinking ohfrag _- no, wait! Wait, wait, wait, _no._ His gestalt links were pulsing searing waves of ache through him, but that's what Overlord wanted! He needed to keep focused. The equation was unbalanced, promising nothing to _stop_ the ache if he obeyed. There was nothing motivating him to obey if the punishing not-pain would continue even after obedience, and that flaw was in Vortex's favor. If he could just use that to break what conditioning had already been ingrained, then maybe, _maybe_..!

Overlord neatly tucked the edge of the plastic into the innermost layer already covering Vortex's chest. He started wrapping the bubble-blanket upward from there without even looking at him, like the helicopter had fallen from his sight upon disappointing him.

He was being ignored. Rewrapped and ignored. Ohhhh, frag. He'd thought his primitive machine self had been frightened before, but now it was thrashing wildly as it attempted to tear his logic hubs out of the driver's seat.

He struggled to focus on Overlord's words, not his actions. "Really?" the 'copter asked through clenched teeth, clamping EM field so close he felt like he was about to sprain something. The words rasped strangely, but at least they weren't garbled nonsense. "It sounds to me like you can't keep your promises, **sir**."

He wouldn't have picked the twitch from those sculpted lips if he hadn't had all his proximity and optical sensors zeroed onto the other Decepticon's reaction. He didn't know what the motion meant. It could have been anger, amusement, or anything really, but at this point, Vortex was grasping for whatever he could get. Anything that meant he was doing more than digging his own bubblewrapped grave. He was so desperate for a sign of hope, he hung from the twitch as if Overlord had scowled in defeat.

The triple-changer wound another layer of plastic over his chest and walked around him to stand at his back and truss up the bit of rotor hub that'd been exposed. "Do I? Do tell me, Vortex, how have I not kept my promises?" the grave voice now at his back asked in a neutral tone, and rage scorched Vortex's processor.

_'The blasted _**POP**_, you stupid aft! I deserved it, and you didn't give it to me because you don't have a fragging clue how conditioning works!'_ The words nipped at his tongue, but he gritted his teeth shut. Giving away the mistake might mean Overlord would correct it. That couldn't happen. Overlord's mistake had exhilarated him at first, but now it filled him with a black murderous anger. He was being played with, and that infuriated him.

It also frightened him for some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on. Defiance of this magnitude this late in the conditioning process should not have been met by casual dismissal. Overlord should have been worried, but he wasn't, and that worried Vortex.

Also, the words burned against the inside of his lips trying to get out. Not because he wanted to give away the flaw he was exploiting, but because he had been asked a question. Overlord's rule about that had been laid down, and the _need_ to answer was eating at him like acid. But he wouldn't - he couldn't! If he gave his warped code a single scrap of - of - _surrender_ to leverage against his logic hubs, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from folding like tinfoil.

Unfortunately, his machine code could hold out longer than his exhausted willpower. He slapped together a non-answer, reasoning that it was better to answer on his own terms than blurt out what he didn't want Overlord to discover. "Funny, I didn't think I had to explain your errors," the Combaticon countered, doing his best not to let the melting sense of relief for answering undermine him further.

Vortex felt almost an audible _click_ as two pieces of data finally connected together. Hope trickled down through the screaming _need-ache-want_chaos to his seething processor. Yes. _Yes!_ That was what he'd been looking for! It'd been so blatantly obvious that he'd overlooked it until now. It was impossibly basic, a lousy vidshow villain's mistake, and it was the crowbar he could put in the flaw to crack it wide open.

He knew how conditioning reprogramming worked like he knew his own frame specs. The process was based off substitution. Replacement of sensations for concepts, like linking the sensation of pain with the concept of transformation. Thinking of transforming would cause pain if the conditioning was done correctly, because the mecha's underlying system code itself would believe that the two were linked. Conditioning replaced priorities and imperatives, too. Overlord had been feeding Vortex's machine-beast the idea that obedience to his rules was an absolute, the number one priority, and heavily linking withdrawal symptoms to that concept. Everything that had been happening up to this moment was simply Overlord tricking his coding into subconsciously rewriting itself to fit that new priority.

The flaw had been in Overlord failing to solidify the replacement. Vortex's primitive machine creature doubted whether good behavior was really linked to a reward. The only thing it was certain of was that bad behavior resulted in withdrawal - but when good behavior sometimes resulted in it as well, the creature couldn't see a clear behaviorism to follow. The conditioning hadn't cemented into Vortex's code like it should have.

And there had been another flaw all along, one so visible that Vortex felt dumb for missing this long. Overlord was a monologue and cackled, overdramatic laughter away from being a vidshow villain. Let a mech know what was being done to him, and _he'd fight back_. Vortex had been resisting all along, pushing back against the mindless obedience being trained into him by desperately working out methods to keep his mind in control. That meant he'd bent before the training, but he hadn't _broken_. It'd been a sad, crippled effort for the most part, but he shouldn't have been able to resist at all, if the conditioning had been slipped into him correctly. He was able to analyze everything being done to him, however, because Overlord had made his intentions obvious.

Because he himself still had some control, was able to see the conditioning as the imposed changes they were, he could turn that analysis on his own code. It was normally something only a medic should be allowed to do, but Vortex didn't happen to have one of those wrapped up in the plastic with him. He was on his own with this, and just desperate enough to risk messing with his own program support cradles. By tracing the alterations caused by the stimulus/reaction training sequence, his logic hubs could pick out where the artificial associations had been created. And, once found and marked as malware, his code could self-repair.

In theory, anyway. So long as Overlord kept contradicting his own training system, letting Vortex's processor highlight the flawed associations, all he had to do was trace the changes back to the root code. It was going to be difficult rewriting them back to normal by himself, but considering his other options right now? He could slagging afford to be patient and start -

**_[Authorization required. Access denied.]_**

What the - ?

Vortex watched the error pop-up on his HUD completely flabbergasted. What? That didn't even make sense! A program error of some kind, maybe?

He retraced the changes through another set of machine code lines, this time for his sensor network, and grimaced at how deep the conditioning had become rooted. No wonder it felt so awful when he didn't get that stupid bubble-burst, if his entire sensor network had been turned against him like this. He found the source and went to start editing it -

- only to run smack into another **_[Access denied.]_** message. What? Was he being denied access to his own code? Had Overlord somehow prevented him from editing the changes?! That...no, that wasn't possible. He had checked immediately upon awakening here the first time.**_[Access denied. Access denied. Access denied.]_** He was completely sure the smug rustbucket hadn't hacked him! His firewall hadn't been breached, his logs were in order - how in the Pit had Overlord denied him editing rights?!

**_[Authorization required. Access denied]_**

Authorization?

Vortex's visor flared for an instant with recognition as that registered at last. He'd stuck on the denied access, but that was the part that mattered. That was the part that he should have, _should have_ thought about. The part of him that was still trading witty, snarky retorts with Overlord finally caught up with what was going on internally, and he couldn't stop his vocalizer from making a strangled little sound of utter horror.

Authorization required. Yes. As always.

Megatron's authorization, because Vortex was a Combaticon.

If Vortex could have edited his own core code before now, he'd have yanked out the loyalty programming so fast it'd have left a sucking void, but that wasn't possible. Shockwave and Starscream had made certain none of the Combaticons could lift a single finger against Megatron, or even think about overthrowing the Supreme Commander. The key for editing those limitations, also known as having access to their own machine code, had then been ceremoniously handed over to Megatron himself. Only Megatron had the Combaticons' access keys.

And Overlord had rooted the conditioning _just deep enough_ that trying to edit it was fragging core-code alteration, and therefore Vortex couldn't _do_ it because _frag Megatron's rusted ports with a slagging, waste-eating, drone-licking - __**argh**__._

The violence-laced, vitriol-filled blast of hate blazed through Vortex's head, which the loyalty programming picked up on, of course. _'Tut-tut, Combaticon. That is not loyalty to the Decepticon Cause.'_ For his seditious, disloyal thoughts, it punished him with swift process termination.

Ouch. Re-education hurt.

The re-booting took a while.

The loyalty software was designed to block any kind of process that indicated dissidence. It usually sent several ping-warnings to Vortex cautioning him to stop, but…yeah, his thoughts hadn't been just mildly out of line, this time. Even he could admit he'd stepped full-out into no-go territory. When unacceptable threads of thought filtering through its analysis centers weren't stopped consciously, the loyalty program simply took the quickest route to end them itself. It reinitialized the whole system by shutting the CPU down. That ended the thought process and every other potentially insubordinate action happening concurrently.

Because shutting down the mind wasn't enough to be considered discipline, not to Shockwave and Starscream. Forced shutdown was unpleasant, but it also carried the secondary purpose of leaving the frame of the rebelling mecha openly vulnerable. Recovering from a cold shut-off took time, and the Combaticons had returned to Earth to embark on a magical journey of discovery finding out just how bad that time could be made. The Decepticons on Earth had free rein for how they chose to abuse any Combaticon who'd been left defenseless because he hadn't yet learnt his lessons about loyalty to the Cause. The limit, so far as Megatron's official orders went, was death.

Not even Vortex had enjoyed the results of _that_ order. The combiner team had soon been re-educated in how not to think about certain things - very precise, very faction-leader related things - on pain of suddenly glitching in front of other Decepticons. It was humiliating enough collapsing on the spot, but to do so among mecha who might find it an excellent opportunity for any number of things, none of them fun for the victim, taught the Combaticons to censor their own thoughts very quickly indeed.

Behind the not-to-be-had thoughts, there was not-to-be-tinkered-with code. The loyalty software itself had a restricted-access protocol attached. It made it impossible to rewrite or _over_write without the proper passcodes and identifications. It prevented the subject of the program from tampering with the program. That was logical, and unfortunately that logic extended those protocols to the whole set of routines where the software's area of influence centered. That included most of the personality component's drivers, the gestalt code, and a big chunk of the core operating software. Translation: a hefty percentage of gestalt-affected hardware as well as most of the underlying software.

The Combaticons had adapted, just like they had adapted to everything else that happened after leaving the spark-boxes. Vortex was fairly sure he could speak for the others in his team when he said death was preferable to returning to the Box, and Megatron had made a point of informing them that they would not be granted the mercy of a shot to the head if they displeased him again. Meaning that it was either adapting to the loyalty program or returning to the Box. It'd been an easy choice to make.

Adapting to the changes meant a myriad of small annoyances in their everyday lives, but it hadn't been _too_ bad. Even the smallest driver updates had to be performed by the Constructicons if those updates came anywhere close to certain functions, but it was just something they'd learned to live with. The thought censorship was a nuisance, but bearable.

After the first painful orns of realizing he was now _dependent_ on other mecha on a deep, personal, horribly spark-deep and disgustingly emotional level, Vortex just put it away from his mind. It was either that or glitching with reboots every few kliks like a faulty drone. The access restrictions were a weakness which was so profound and unfixable that he'd eventually resorted to erasing it from the forefront of his mind in order to deal with his life how it was, now.

He should have know better than to think Overlord wouldn't take advantage of a huge, gaping weakness like that.

All this came rushing back to Vortex's mind like a Astrotrain crashlanding into his cortex the second his logic hub hardware finished booting their components. Higher thought processes swam back into functioning, and regret floated to the top of his muddled thoughts. He had made an extremely bad call.

Vortex wasn't a mech prone to much introspection, as his profession normally involved him being able to twist other mecha's minds and not the other way around. This had led him latch to onto any weakness he thought he saw in the triple-changer, without realizing such mistakes were something Overlord hadn't overlooked, only ignored as insignificant. Vortex's reaction to knowing about the conditioning had never been more than a sadistic sideshow for the officer because he had known there was nothing Vortex could do to stop it.

Even through the murky haze of a slow system reset, the trapped Combaticon felt acrid, helpless rage bubbling up his fuel intake. Fear chased after it.

Of course Overlord had all but broadcasted his intentions! The big Decepticon made Vortex look like a cyberkitten in comparison when it came to sadism. Making a game of breaking him fit the mecha's style, and mindgames were always more entertaining when the game piece knew how he was being played with. Openly conditioning him this way had been just another detail to clue him in on how he was nothing more than Overlord's toy. Vortex was absolutely at his mercy. It'd all been a set-up, a fragging _'You are welcome to try!'_ tease because the sadistic slaghead knew stopping the conditioned changes wasn't even an option.

It didn't matter if Overlord's obedience equation was faulty. Vortex couldn't take advantage of the imbalance. Obedience was still the only option open to him, because he couldn't uproot the terrifying, internal punishment for disobedience.

Frag. His. _Life_.

The only good thing so far was that the forced reset had erased his sensor network's cache. The wipe usually made him apprehensive; he'd come online more than once to a rush of sensation, as Skywarp typically waited until he was back online before dropping him headfirst into the ocean, and there was nothing like having a suddenly empty sensory cache refilled by cold, wet, and increasing pressure that'd crumple his plating if he couldn't recover bodily control fast enough to stop sinking. The Insecticons had once gnawed his legs down to the bare struts while he'd been offline, which hadn't been a good shock to fill his an empty cache with in any way, shape, or form. Right now, however, the wipe inspired relief instead of wariness. The empty cache was a blessing because he didn't feel like he'd go crazy if he didn't get the inane sound of a plastic bubble-burst soon.

Instead, he felt stupid and vastly humiliated, just like every time his mind regained control after Overlord left the room...only he hadn't, yet. Vortex's few uncovered proximity sensors informed him that the tall Decepticon officer was still present. He seemed to be leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He appeared to be waiting for his pet project's forced reboot to finish.

Vortex's visor fritzed online while a few secondary systems finished initializing, but he didn't need it to see Overlord's unbearably smug smile. His imagination painted it vividly without actual visual input needed. It was a tangible thing in the triple-changer's expansive, suffocating electromagnetic field, as if the mecha's absurdly plush lips had taken on a life of their own and filled the room with their perverse enjoyment of Vortex's suffering. The swirling energy radiating off of Overlord almost asphyxiated the Combaticon with amusement. It was a smile full of that rich voice _tsk-tsk_ing, added to a dash of sweetly chiding poison rubbing in how submission was the only option. The smile mocked him even before it registered in his optical sensors. As the pixilated smudge that was Overlord straightened and approached him, Vortex wished he'd been scrapped just to avoid having to see it.

That wish turned out to be unnecessary. The smile wasn't there. Overlord's optic ridges were knitted into a slight frown that gave the officer's hyper-expressive face a kind, worried expression. It made Vortex's plating try to crawl off his body and disappear into the floor, because glee and malice reached out to tenderly envelope the 'copter like a rotten blanket.

Overlord stood silently before him for a few kliks, looking at him like a compassionate, even paternalistic officer dealing with a subordinate's inexplicably poor behavior. The Combaticon's visor stopped spitting lines of static across his sight and showed the triple-changer in perfect clarity. His spark scrambled frantically at the back of its chamber as if it'd claw through his back to escape what was coming. Whatever was coming. Because something was coming, and it didn't know what, but like the Pit did it want to be here for it.

Oh, Vortex knew what regret was, now, intimate and unavoidable. He had made a bad, bad call, and he was going to pay for it.

One giant hand lifted to slowly lay on the top of his helm. Since he had been returned to plastic wrapped above the chin, Vortex's flinch didn't dislodge the large palm. It caressed his head, soaking him in ill intentions as it handled him with the gentlest of caring touches.

"Finished rebooting, Vortex?" Ugh. Even the fragger's voice was tuned to that sick, patently false concern.

Overlord expected to be answered in a timely manner. Vortex had been rammed head-first into the fact that disappointing Overlord's expectations led nowhere good. He dimmed his visor and answered so faintly it wouldn't have been audible from two steps away, "Yes, Overlord sir."

The oppressive energy field sipped his despair like high-grade to be savored. Overlord's voice _oozed_ concern. "Do you suffer this kind of, hmm,**mishap** often?"

The words diffused what little heat the soft, careful stroking brought his input-greedy gestalt code. A cold rope of humiliation uncoiled in his tanks, snaked up his intake, and knotted tightly around his throat. The triple-changer was toying with him, innocently inquiring after his health, and all Vortex could think was how pathetic it looked from an outside perspective. It sounded as if he had a _malfunction_. He would have probably felt anger instead of chagrin if he didn't know it was close to being exactly that. This was a debilitating, coded override. A drone with this kind of function error would be scrapped for parts, especially if the drone didn't learn from repeatedly tripping the shutdown parameters.

"No, Overlord sir," was whispered quiet enough to match his previous answer.

"Hmm. Are you aware of what is triggering these incidents? It is most...disquieting." The words were accompanied by the tiniest twitch to the mask of sugary concern. Overlord's energy undulated, washing over Vortex's in relentless waves of gloating. What was outright freaking the Combaticon out was the sense of purpose the EM field now held. It rippled with cheerfully cruel intentions, and it darkened, goading him to make one more misstep - or not. It was, after all, too late. Vortex had already screwed up.

Not that he wasn't going to desperately clutch at anything to lessen the blow when it fell. He coughed the thick sludge of humiliation off his vocalizer and croaked, "Yes, Overlord sir." Yes, he was aware of what it caused the shutdowns, and Overlord knew as well, frag his rusted CPU.

"You are? Curious. I'd have thought a Decepticon as intelligent as yourself would have avoided known triggers. What caused this particular incident?" The full lips smiled, slow and self-satisfied. "Pray tell."

He was going to make him _explain_. The sadistic _fragger_.

Vortex the interrogator could easily idolize this Decepticon. Overlord was brilliant. Some beaten, buried part of Vortex had to admire his technique. The triple-changer hadn't raised a hand, much less his voice, yet the Combaticon was only a thin veneer of self-control away from screaming in frustration - and fear. That took skill.

As a professional, Vortex was a fan. As a victim, he was outright praying for Primus to deliver him.

He fought the compulsion to answer this time, he really did. It would expose a wound he had worked very hard to make unnoticeable. As any Decepticon knew, flaws were exploitable, and the Combaticons collectively possessed a gaping weakness anyone could needle if it were exposed. He wasn't stupid enough to believe Overlord was asking anything he didn't know already, but he still didn't want to answer. He didn't want to say it out loud where Overlord could poke and prod at it like an open, bleeding cut.

It was terrible enough admitting the truth to himself when he could nurse the vulnerability and try to hide it as best he could. Having his basic code restrained terrified the 'copter - or it had once, back when having his code manipulated had been fresh in his mind. It was too much like being taken apart for imprisonment in the Box. Every internal restraint wrapped around him made him that much more nervous because it took away control over his body and mind. He'd tried to forget the loyalty program's insidious tendrils were threaded through him, because he couldn't fight it and refused to stay scared forever.

Now he was being ordered to dwell on that sense of helplessness. Vortex shivered and was reminded all over again that Overlord had dug his own code-changes deep enough to twine with what the 'copter really didn't want to think about.

As much as he didn't _want_ to answer, his core-deep cringing beast had already rolled over. His conscious mind's wants were no longer important. Vortex himself didn't have a choice anymore. His vocalizer clicked a few times before he gave up trying to fight the compulsion and admitted glumly, "It's the loyalty programming, Overlord sir."

"Oh."

He was screwed. He was so screwed he couldn't even comprehend how screwed he was. His mind was unable to supply possible outcome scenarios because his alarmed higher processor units were censoring everything on account of possible stasis-inducing panic attacks. _Panic attacks_. Him! _Vortex_ was on the verge of an emotional breakdown due to rampant terror. _That's_ how screwed he was. This wasn't waking up in the Autobot brig with his tank on empty and a gun at his helm; this was waking up on Shockwave's lab table with the extractor delving into his opened chest, prying open his spark chamber!

Vortex felt his processor contract in fear at what that single syllable could imply. Either the point had been made and figurative-Shockwave would pardon him at the last possible second, or things were about to get unimaginably horrible for Vortex. Overlord's voice didn't give him the slightest clue about which it was about to be.

Please, Primus. Let this be the end of the conversation. Let the fragger have had enough. _Please_.

"I see," the triple-changer said in a companionable tone. "I did read about this loyalty programming in your file. I had never seen its effects, though." The words acquired an overtone of mild fascination, and the triple-changer began walking around him. The sweetest concern shone from the red optics studying him from every angle. "You've had this programming since your activation on Earth, have you not?"

Unwanted connections were being made in Vortex's mind. The urge to answer began to mix with an incipient desire to be asked. The pacing brought in a rush of uncalled-for memories of plastic popping. First came the test, then the reward. Or at least not the punishment? He could hope, anyway. In order to earn his bubble-burst, he had to demonstrate that he could obey his officer's orders. Only then would Overlord be pleased and bestow that reward. The code-creature inside Vortex wanted, _wanted_ to be asked more questions so he could answer them and show how well-trained he was.

He stomped fiercely on a simpering tone until it came out closer to neutral. "Yessir, Overlord sir."

The meek metal beast of structure and code broken to Overlord's heel crouched in the back of the Combaticon's mind and whimpered. Please let him be a good subordinate. Ask him more questions!

"It's a most interesting reaction, considering the length of time you've had to adjust to the program that causes it. I was under the impression, unless my reference files are mistaken, that it was triggered by defiance to our leader, Lord Megatron." The circling stopped, leaving Overlord right before the 'copter once again, and when had Vortex begun trembling like this? He was shaking so hard his vision jittered, making Overlord's menacing smirk all the more frightening. "Have you been entertaining seditious thoughts, Vortex?"

Not…that question.

When Vortex saw the triple-changer's face, numb horror dribbled down his entire body until only the plastic wrapped around him kept him upright. His knees certainly weren't supporting him any longer. Overlord wasn't even attempting to hide his amusement anymore. It wasn't just ill-intentioned; it was a _playful_ smirk, too, and the kind of games mecha like this played were enough to send Vortex's mind back to cower beside his internal code-creature.

Frag, _frag_! Okay, no, wait. It wasn't so bad. If the walking slagheap wanted to believe the glitching was because he'd thought about shoving sharp pointy things up bucket-head's -

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

No! No no no, simple question! Simple, direct question! That was simple enough to twist the meaning of to his advantage, really. He just had to think about it from a certain perspective, and no! No, of course he hadn't been thinking rebellious thoughts about Megatron. He had succumbed momentarily to frothing anger and thought about some hypothetical violence, sure, but that had been because of _Overlord_. To be honest in a round-about way, then, Vortex had been thinking defiantly about _Overlord._

The loyalty program subsided, an itching presence that slowly trickled back out of his databanks. It lurked, ever-watchful. "No, sir," Vortex said aloud, with a good dose of caution to go with his panic.

"None at all?" What a pleasant surprise! Oh, happy day! Butterflies and glitter day! Overlord was just _delighted_ that his pet project was loyal to Megatron. The Combaticon's armor plating felt as protective as tissue paper before that overdone joy, especially when doubt entered the triple-changer's pleased expression. "I am surprised, I admit...I would have thought that there would be some lingering resentment due to your recent relocation. You must agree that Lord Megatron wouldn't take such measures if they weren't necessary. You must agree that you deserve to be here with me. Don't you agree with Lord Megatron's judgment, Vortex?"

The voice became a purring whisper as Overlord leaned down to speak directly into the Combaticon's audio. "Don't lie to me, Vortex."

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

Vortex desperately called up a slew of random memory files. The ones from before the gestalt formation usually worked better.

He knew what Overlord was doing. It wasn't as if others hadn't tried to make him glitch before. The Combaticons had figured out that the software had a margin of tolerance. The loyalty program was meant to re-educate them, after all, not shut them down. The purpose of the buffer warning was for them to reconsider their disloyalty. The theory was that their change in thought patterns would guide them back to the Decepticon Cause and loyalty to Megatron. In practice, the Combaticons used the pop-up as a warning to derail their train of thought. They didn't have to stop thinking whatever triggered the software; they just had to change their thoughts enough to slide under the threat of shutdown.

The secret was just to alternate innocuous data in intervals long enough to appease the software. Hence, memory files and - _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ - and it had been fragging easier on previous occasions when he could just shoot the smart-aft who had tried to glitch him!

Still, it was doable. Just like previous times, he didn't have to answer the question and concentrate on innocuous thoughts. That would put the watchdog software back down.

Except he did have to answer.

Because it wasn't some fragging nobody Decepticon bothering him. Overlord had asked. When Overlord asked, Vortex knew he _had_ to answer or - _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ - or he'd wish for the pleasure of a dip in a smelting pool. Except he _couldn't_ answer because that_question_ - !

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

The 'copter offlined his visor and tried to focus on staying afloat in the two way riptide that was the fierce, ingrained compulsion to obey Overlord's timely-answer rule versus the knowledge of what would happen if he even tried. It was a circuit-melting paradox. He lost the fight whichever way it went, but there was no option to give up in despair. He had to choose, and this mockery of having a choice in what was being done to him made his helm throb.

Alright, fine, he wouldn't think about it! All he had to do was follow the orders he'd been given. Overlord hadn't said he couldn't disagree with Megatron; the triple-changer just demanded he answer one way or another. He didn't even _have_ to lie. He'd just tell Overlord the truth, and the truth was that he totally didn't agree that being violated in every way by this fragger was necessary -

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

Argh, no no nononono, nope, he agreed! Vortex was Megatron's loyal follower! Why on Cybertron would he disagree with anything Megatron decided? Yes, he agreed completely! He was perfectly okay with Megatron's policy, or management, or whatever the frag had brought him here under Overlord's thumb, and -

_'Don't lie to me, Vortex.'_

Overlord's words dug through his excuses, shredding them before his vocalizer even engaged. Lies? Had he been contemplating telling his officer_lies_? He knew better. Overlord had trained him better than that. Oh, he could all too easily imagine the consequences if he was caught out in a lie._Days_ alone - maybe even weeks! There'd be no bubble, no touch, nothing. The stasis protocols would creep back up his priority queue until he was locked down inside his own body, and a spark-box would be totally unnecessary because Overlord could just leave him here to this empty room and an offline body.

Implied disapproval sluiced over him, sending his subconscious mind into pre-emptive cowering. But that meant he _did_ disagree with Megatron, now didn't it?

The clamor of process termination warnings boiled up from under his databanks, sending angry pop-ups that didn't stop because he couldn't stop thinking. _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ He couldn't lie, but he couldn't disagree, and there was no solution, there was nothing he could do to stop - _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

No, this was a misunderstanding! He could turn this around enough, he could. He had to! See, he wasn't lying, uh, not really. He was just...having a sudden reassessment of, er, the Decepticon Supreme Commander's actions based on - _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ - on information unavailable at the time of Lord Megatron's decision. He had changed his mind because of new information! Yes, that was something happened in war! New information came up, and prior decisions had to be reassessed by whatever Decepticon was in possession of this new information, so -_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ - no no, wait, he wasn't disagreeing! Or rather, he was _now_, but he agreed with what Lord Megatron _had_decided, it was perfectly fine with him, and -

The loyalty program wasn't fooled in the least. It bulled through Vortex's pretzel of logic and slapped him with another pop-up: _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

The warnings becoming increasingly more insistent, but he couldn't make the dissident thoughts stop. Overlord's question and subsequent order had thrown his mind into a vicious loop where denying the truth that would tip him into the glitch only made him retrace the line of thought back to the order not to lie. Even if the 'copter managed to eventually scrap up the willpower necessary to lie to his officer's face, there wasn't enough time to trick the loyalty program into actually believing what he was saying instead of the truth. The truth, which was -

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

A soft sound of distress escaped Vortex's vocalizer. "Please, sir," he pleaded hoarsely. Because he hoped, Primus reformat him into a buffing drone, he desperately hoped that this was what Overlord actually wanted to hear. "Please, Overlord sir. I - I can't."

The gentle stroking resumed, petting his helmet, and Vortex keened with the effort of holding his tongue. The truth fought to be said, as it should be said because he had been asked a question and a lie wasn't acceptable, but he couldn't, he just _couldn't_ -

"**Can't?** It's a simple question. Do you or don't you agree with Megatron's orders? I seem to remember telling you that I'm to be answered**swiftly** when I ask a question, Vortex," Overlord reminded him in a chiding voice, and his code reeled with the need to answer -

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_  
_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_  
_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

Frag.

"Nh," was all he managed to say before he shuddered and went slack in his wrappings. Black narrowed his vision down to a slender strip that blipped to nothing as his entire optical array was taken offline, and Vortex reset.

It wasn't painful, at least not in the physical sense, but it was awful. The Combaticons typically did their best not to trip the loyalty program. It wasn't just what the other Decepticons did to them that made it a miserable experience.

A complete system reset required a low but important burst of current for the new start up, and having to supply two such bursts in such a short time period drained on Vortex's already meager charge reserve. He hadn't had time to recharge more than a fraction of what he'd expelled in the previous reset. Cybertronians weren't meant to cold reboot this way. It wasn't a passive power-down, like going into recharge, but an abrupt shutdown that went through none of the procedures. It stressed his processor by cutting everything off when the power stopped, and also taxed it because restarting meant wading through the collapsed mess left behind when the lights went out.

Task queues hadn't closed properly or in the right order. The caches hadn't flushed properly, leaving jumbled muddles as the initial dump from the prior shutdown had only been half-sorted by his processor before the second shutdown scrambled everything again. Everything was royal mess once he started back online as every processor had to deal with the problems. The forced shutdown triggered a number of autonomic system check-ups as well, since quite a few log-ins had not logged out because of the lack of proper shutdown procedures, leaving databanks and firewalls confused about the second primary user set of codes trying to sign in where he was already registered as being. The urgent verification requests pinging both sets of log-in credentials hit him one on top of the other, and until the 'ghost' of his past log-in cleared, the dual returns created multiple error notices that cluttered Vortex's HUD and required vast amounts of processing power.

There was a reason why reboot was slow: the time was needed for deep unscrambling. This second time took even longer than the first.

Vortex's body was physically okay, but he felt like a drooling, hijacked wreck on the inside where his cortex had been electronically mauled. He hung limply, unable to see, hear, or feel anything, and his mind clung to the headache-inducing processor spurts as evidence that he wasn't in the Box. It was close. Being unable to feel things was scarily similar, but he...he wasn't...not that he could _do_ anything about it, which wasn't reassuring and was in fact one of the more frightening facts of his existence right now.

That was a fact that he'd have done anything to forget about. What a shame that his helpless, machine malfunction-suspended mind had nothing more to do than dwell on every aspect of it. On every Overlord-ruled, Overlord-dictated, Overlord-owned detail of his pitiful life.

It took far, far too long before his sensor network started making actual connections again and transmitting data instead of random numbers. He felt colors for a while until his processors caught up and interpreted the data correctly as sound and started hearing it instead. He had approximately three seconds to savor the Primus-blessed onslaught of sensation before Overlord stripped even that teensy morsel of relief away.

Vortex jerked blindly as fingers snapped too close to his face. He was blind still, but his audio arrays had finally booted enough to register the sharp sound.

"Ah, Vortex. Vortex, Vortex, Vortex. Do pay attention. I think you are losing focus on our conversation." The amused chuckle squealed across the Combaticon's disoriented processors as garbage white noise. "Now, in light of the - how shall we say, little episode you just had? I will assume that you do **not**, in fact, agree with our leader's decision. Why is that, I wonder? Do you, perhaps, disapprove of the location Lord Megatron chose for the task? Or is something else **bothering** you?"

The frantic overrides to his audio array's reset sequence were lost in Vortex's slowly untangling priority queue. Overlord's every word came through clearly, if poorly, and Vortex _heard_ Primus turn His back. The functioning parts of his processor that had registered the questions were already retrieving the relevant associated files.

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

_No_, not again! No no nonono_nonooh_fragoh_frag_ ohfrag ohfrag ohfrag -

"Nunh, nrr-_scrk_, no pleas_rrrrkr-krsss_ir, please, Over_xkst_lord sir!" His vocalizer crackled and spat static like a broken radio receptor as he manually booted it with half the drivers still offline. "_skl-rii__**eee**__iiii_I can't - I _kurr-k_an't answer, please!"

The helicopter's circuitry was all but screeching, sheeting thin flickers of electromagnetic energy off as it clawed at the open air between he and Overlord in a desperate attempt to communicate. It was an EM field drenched with submission and fear. Gross entreaty in energy form tried to meld to the larger Decepticon's EM field and instead fell flat. He didn't have the charge left to consciously push excess energy into his circuitry to project it further than a handspan off his plating.

Vortex had been forced into shutdown more than a few times, but the prospect of it happening for a third time in the same day would scare anybody. To have it happen in the midst of another cold boot - while being completely conscious, at that - was preposterous. No processor was able to cope with something like that. And this time he didn't even have enough spare processor power to actually try anything. He couldn't evade the line of thought that led inevitably back to flipping the trigger!

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

The smaller Decepticon whimpered and squirmed inside his plastic prison as the warnings climbed inexorably towards system restart. Panic made the volume of his pleading rise, like he'd somehow get through to Overlord's nonexistent mercy if he just begged louder. "Overlord - Overlord sir, **please**! Please - I-I - y-you - just - just tell me h-how - what d-do you want me to do? Please, I'll - anything but - I can't, please, I-I can't!"

The words were nearly incoherent and stammered, the syllables barely filtering through static, but Vortex couldn't stop the stream of blurted pleas regardless of how much sense they made. Maybe, if Overlord saw that Vortex conceded - no, surrendered, this was utter surrender - maybe then? The triple-changer was slagging victorious, now _please_ may he be gracious in victory and give the humbled loser something else to think about before -

Overlord's massive hand cupped the side of his helm, the thumb grazing over the rotary mecha's cheek in a mockery of tenderness. "What I want, Vortex?" Overlord bent until his deep red optics were level with Vortex's visor, bare inches from it. His voice was a low rumble of contempt and malicious joy, and Vortex in-vented a huge gulp of air in a panicked gasp because that voice, for once, truthfully reflected how the triple-changer's EM field felt. "I want you to answer," Overlord said over the Combaticon's beseeching whine, "I want you to **think** what you are going to answer before you say it, and I want you to think **why** you are answering that."

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_  
_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_  
_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

"**No!** No**_no_**no, wait!" _**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_ "Primus frag me, I want to! **Please**, I swear I do, I just **can't**! I-I - please, I - "

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

The desperate words cut off as his frame powered down one more time.

The first thought that managed to swim through Vortex's mind and register for more than a second before breaking apart again was that the ground had somehow flipped upside down. He held a muzzy sort of confusion for that, because then he'd have to be hanging from the roof. Since that was clearly not possible, his stumbling processors made the logical deduction that the roof must have migrated downward instead, and he was hanging downside up from the floor.

Yes, logic. He...didn't really have much of it at the moment. Figuring out how gravity worked was the limit of his abilities, and that was straining something. It took him quite a while to sort out that he'd initially been wrong, and by then he'd forgotten what he'd been wrong about. Vortex wrung mental hands anxiously, but he couldn't make sense of why he was worried. If his processors had been mecha, they'd have been crawling around his CPU machine code structure, face-planting amidst sporadic, spaced-out attempts to locate the temporal coordinates for his current set of wing aerofoils. That was interesting when he finally got around to remembering he was a rotary frame, not a jet, and therefore had rotors, not wings. And he wasn't prone to time-travel, either, at least that he could recall at the moment.

His first _coherent_ thought was that his gyros had become misaligned, along with 90% of his sensory arrays, hence why he was registering noise in every input device he had _except_ his audios. Those were busy telling him what the color blue sounded like, which was unpleasant. He didn't ever want to hear what neon green sounded like. The only successful ping that got answered came from his proximity sensors, but whatever information they could provide got lost as soon as the data packet left the hardware.

To say that Vortex's processes were scrambled was like saying a black hole was a bit dark. He could only remember who he was thanks to the fact that neither his memory banks nor his personality component's data files could be corrupted by incorrect booting, but his memory cache was gradually giving him cause to feel nothing but terror for this situation. The more it organized the tangled knots of recent events, the more the 'copter huddled inside his consciousness and realized he did indeed have reason to worry. Worry, fear, and be helpless to do _anything_.

His vital databanks were intact, but everything else had been thrown into a storm of conflicting information and trapped into dead-end start-ups that kept stalling out and restarting over and over again. His motor centers were trying to interpret the dates on his temporary memory files while his logic hubs sought to puzzle out the meaning of an old Cybertronian song, despite the fact that he was internally yelling at them that the tags on that memory file were completely wrong and not relevant to current events. He had heard the song once a long time ago, but due to the scrambled nature of his CPU right now, a third of his processing power had dedicated itself to understanding the lyrics because one of his logic hubs had caught it in a recursive loop.

This was a terrible thing to online to.

The little tight ball of data that was Vortex's consciousness waited in agitated fear for the universe to make sense again. There was nothing else he could do. Control had been taken away, his computer core wrenched from beneath mental fingers, and all he could do was wait for the chaos to settle. He had to wonder if it ever would. His higher-thought data streams were onlining in his core processor so slowly he couldn't tell if progress was ongoing until another one flashed as active. He had no way to know how long the reboot was taking, just that it felt like forever.

He was powerless, and that reminded him of the Detention Centre. Wasn't that a bitter thought? He'd been afraid this whole time that he'd be left inside his own deactivated frame, dropped into stasis while still conscious, but this? This was another kind of sparkbox. He was still conscious inside it, just unable to do a single thing in the midst of chaotic software.

Maybe this was the new Box. Maybe Overlord had abandoned him, and this was Vortex's punishment. He was going to be stuck here, trapped in his garbage-hash of system processes because he'd disobeyed, he'd _failed_, he'd disappointed the officer...

Eventually, after Primus knew how long, the Combaticon's input arrays finally matched the correct drivers and allowed the hardware to begin booting properly. Connections between data files and tasks were established, and he became, once again, a functional Cybertronian. More or less, at least. Vortex figured his systems wouldn't be able to completely recover until he went through a complete defragmentation of his core files.

The first sensory data that reached him came from his corruption-resistant proximity sensors. They registered the ever-present plastic smothering most of his body, but the few sensors on the top half of his helm did a sweep and reported one other presence in the vicinity of his frame.

Vortex jolted in the bubblewrap, moving for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

On the one hand: thank ye holy Primus, he hadn't been abandoned to another Box and torment therein. On other hand, and this was the thought that caused his kneejerk fear reaction, what if Overlord had only stayed in case the system crash hadn't finished him off? What if this wasn't over? Overlord was still there, once again casually leaning against the doorframe, and Vortex's helpful sensors informed him when that distance between him and the other Decepticon decreased. The triple-changer was approaching him.

Vortex would have done many things at this point, sobbing and begging for mercy chief among them, but his systems were still too disjointed to manage anything beyond clicking his vocalizer softly. With his audios and visor still catching up, he couldn't tell if Overlord was doing anything besides approaching. He waited, praying to Primus, the Unmaker, the Flying Spaghetti Monster - slaggit, to anyone and everything who might listen to Decepticons in need - that the drone-fragging triple-changer had had enough. That he realized Vortex had learned his lesson.

The 'copter was exhausted, with a weariness that went much further than simple lack of charge. He lacked that, too, but his willpower had been sapped, and his pride had been beaten down. He was a sad sack of tired parts ready to give up. The Constructicons wouldn't have bothered putting his internal metal creature into intensive care if it'd been dragged into the repairbay; they'd have given it up for dead and stuck it straight in the morgue. Vortex would have asked to be put down with the poor beast, for that matter. He was past the point of doing anything else.

Yessir, Overlord sir. He'd learned his lesson, Overlord sir.

Kliks passed, and eventually all of Vortex's components came online. They were so full of bugs he had to restrict his HUD to just the optical feed to see anything besides warning pop-ups, but online nonetheless. It took longer to sort through the critical error cascade that flooded him when he tried accessing functions himself. Trying to refresh his optic sensors caused the whole array to crash again.

There were a herd of tiny organic creatures in pain nearby, or at least that's what it sounded like. That struck him as not quite right, but he was wary of refreshing his audios considering what had just happened to his optic sensors.

Vortex's memory retrieval sluggishly went looking for audio files tagged with that decibel of squeaking. It browsed at the speed of a millenarian, rust-encrusted reference drone, but eventually the search supplied an associated recent file for the sound.

Oh. _Oooooh._

His helm jerked to the side as much as the plastic prison allowed, zeroing in on the noise as best as he could. The source wasn't hard to find, but it was difficult to see. He refreshed his optic sensors, impatient that his visor could only load at the speed of an inchworm, and the morass of colors separated into vision very slowly. Between blocks of randomly colored pixels, he could just make out the shape of familiar huge hands splayed and rubbing deliberately back and forth against each other, fingers kneading every once and a while, and between the palms…in the middle...

The little helm twist was likely noticed by Overlord right away, but he waited until a strangled, hopelessly yearning whimper escaped the 'copter before he tucked the little piece of bubbled plastic away into a gun hatch.

"Good to see you functioning again, Vortex. For a moment, I wondered if you weren't **pretending** to be offline. Perhaps trying to deceive me, yes? That would have been...disgraceful." The warlord spoke lightly, almost cheerfully, but that was a clear threat. A very clear threat. That threat was so clear discerning mecha could see the Pit yawning underneath it.

Vortex's helm twitched frantically in minute side-to-side motions. Static rasped from his vocalizer in something that sounded like a hiccuped moan and was really the universe's most desperate denial. "Nononono."

Crimson optics narrowed, and Vortex went still and silent. Falling back into learned behavior like a released spring wasn't even shameful anymore. He could only be relieved that at least he knew what he was supposed to do. Too late to change anything, but maybe he could avoid making his situation _worse_.

"Are you paying attention, Vortex?" Overlord asked, words couched in a tone so rich with authority only fools would dare defy it. The Combaticon swallowed glass shards of smashed pride and nodded, making indistinct little whispers of assent. Yes, yes, he was listening closely, _eagerly_, as the officer took a step back and started walking that ominous circuit around him. The voice he listened to so carefully turned cruel. "I expect you to answer clearly. You were certainly easy enough to understand before, when you spoke of my - How did you put it? My **errors** when dealing with you?" The words were unhurried and dark. "You must know I am still waiting for your elaboration on the subject. Do point my errors out for me, Vortex."

Vortex's vocalizer scratched and hitched in painful effort until words started pouring from the static. "_Ksssshhhggh_ N-no err_rrsk_ errors! I'm-_guh-krrk_ I'm sorry, Overlord sir. I was _zzzzzghh_ stup_rrffk-kk-kk_ - " He had to cough his vocalizer through reset and gave a panicked metallic squeal when it failed to initialize on the first try. No, please no, this couldn't be happening to him! "**_Eeee-err_**rrksshhStupid! I was stupid and - and I-I should have known _gghfshhh_ my place. I swear it won't happen a-_gggghhh_ again! I'm sorry, I truly am - "

"Oh, are you?" said the triple-changer softly, cutting the pleas like a vibroblade going through vital circuitry. "Really? Are you truly sorry for your behavior? There is little reason for me to believe you. I find it hard to rely on your word. You did, as I recall, claim that I failed to keep my promises to you. Will you back that claim up, or will you retract that statement as well?"

Vortex's vocalizer managed a dismayed wheeze as Overlord paused in front of him. The officer looked down his nose at him, and one side of the mecha's full lips peeled upward into a contemptuous sneer. There was no way to make his response any less damning, yet that look demanded he try.

"No, n-_klrk_ n-no sir - I mean, **yes**_sllrk_. Yes, Overlord sir! I w-want to apologize for_-rrsh_, uh, for slandering you. It was p-po_howr-klrk_ poor! Poor judgment on my part, and I'm sorry! I'm sorry pl_hhhklklshhh_ please! I'm being honest, I am! Let me _fffsh_ apologize! Please, Overlord **sir**! Allow me to t-tell you how_oowr-__**rr**__-shhhghhhk_ sorry I am, I'm really sorry, it won't happen again, just let me apologize for...for my _zzzzzt_behavior. I - I've been bad. I should have behaved. I should_rrrghhhzzsh_ have known better. I **do** know be-_errtk_ - better, and it won't happen again!"

The repeated reboots were taking their toll. Exhaustion nagged already lagging processors. Vortex's visor was starting to fritz out again as he focused single-mindedly on forcing his vocalizer to work. Keeping the hardware mildly operational and pulling words out of the static that made sense when put together - well, it was two very difficult tasks he was trying to juggle at the same time, and he wasn't doing all that well if the red optics narrowing at him were any judge of the situation.

Speaking was demanding all his available resources. His willpower was drained along with everything else, and he was fumbling what might be his only opportunity to salvage this situation. He just couldn't dredge convincing words out of his jumbled, glitchy processors. The only thing that came through his inordinate amounts of messed up software was the quiet desperation the words reflected.

And fear. Vortex's fear came through in every word and every screeping blurt of static as he reset and reset his vocalizer. It was the raw terror instinctively broadcasted on every level by the Combaticon's base-code at the idea of his frame getting forcibly restarted again.

Overlord listened to the torrent of static-filled self-abasement, continuing his slow strides as Vortex poured apologies and pleas out in an uninterrupted flow. His optics narrowed, but he stayed mostly aloof. He had a somewhat bored expression, in fact. The 'copter knew he couldn't stop, not until he was told to, but that expression told him he wasn't appeasing his tormentor, so he begged and implored harder until he was nearly hysterical with tired terror. The mind was scared, but the body was on its last legs.

He was almost grateful when Overlord stopped walking right behind him. Vortex stiffened and went quiet, cold fear icing his vocalizer to numbness, but at least something was happening.

"I see," the taller Decepticon said thoughtfully. "No, I don't believe you're sorry, Vortex - not yet. I think you'll experience **sorry** soon enough," and that was an ugly promise indeed, "but repentance is a commendable thing. I'm encouraged that you've come to recognize the circumstances it belongs in." Overlord placed a broad hand on Vortex's helm and patted it helm twice: _'Good puppy!'_ "I felt as though you were attempting to prove me a liar by not learning anything after all this time, Vortex, but you wouldn't do that, now would you?" The helm under that massive hand twitched in denial, because no no no, of course Vortex wouldn't do that. Vortex was a good subordinate, he _was_, just please let him demonstrate what a good subordinate he could be for his officer!

Vortex was suddenly reminded of what humiliation was. The hand on his helm patted him again, however, and the shame was chased by unwanted hope and a bitter dash of resented pleasure. Oh, he was so well-trained it was pathetic.

The hand smoothed to cup the exposed top and side of his helm as the triple-changer shifted, bending closer. "I believe you deserve a reward for learning, so here. Let me gift you with a piece of knowledge." His voice lowered to something intimate. "I **always** keep my promises."

Vortex felt a puff of warm air as Overlord ex-vented, and then that exaggerated mouth pressed lightly to the side of his helm. His sensor network would have been drunkenly overdosed by the contact at any other time, but now the 'copter felt as if his whole frame had been doused with liquid nitrogen. His numbed vocalizer clicked frantically and couldn't summon a single sound of freaked-out protest.

Overlord was using the gentle contact to ground his EM field, focusing it through the light brush of his lips speaking against Vortex's helm. His circuitry forced the energy on Vortex's faltering systems in an overwhelming surge that crackled under Vortex's plating. The 'copter hadn't been able to perceive the electromagnetic field until then, his body too taxed to understand even its own functions much less Overlord's, and now he whined pitifully as his circuitry was invaded. Overlord's energy swamped him like a bonfire falling on a candle, and it seeped in to taint his own EM field until he couldn't help but feel everything forced on him.

Overlord thrummed with undiluted pleasure at the Combaticon's helpless pain and terror. He rejoiced at the cruelty inflicted on his captive, and soaring over every pleasure-soaked pulse of his glee was his certainty of absolute control. He felt sadistic enjoyment, and he held nothing back as he pushed what he felt into Vortex.

Vortex shuddered and made a sobbing sound of utter despair, vents drawing in air that reeked of oncoming torture. There was no hope for mercy from this Decepticon. None at all.

"I promise you that you will learn obedience," the triple-changer said, his lips scraping against Vortex helm. The words vibrated throughout Vortex's whole shaking body. "You will learn respect and to do as you are told, and you will do so **gratefully**. You will adore every glance I give you, hang off any word I see fit to toss in your direction, and praise Lord Megatron for sending you to me for the discipline you deserve. And when I am done, I promise that you will not hesitate a single klik in ripping your own spark-case out if I order you to." The voice breathing in Vortex's audio husked, sickeningly excited, and Vortex trembled in its wake. "There is nothing you can do to stop me. There is nothing you can gather from your memory files or your supposed wits that will prevent this from happening. All this, Vortex, I am promising to you now."

The last words whispered against metal, and Overlord's lush mouth angled to press a lingering kiss to the side of the trapped mecha's helm.

When he finished, Overlord straightened and stepped away, pulling the long, sucking tendrils of his EM field out of the shivering 'copter. Vortex's intakes seized up as his tanks tried to auto-purge, resulting in a faint retching noise as the triple-changer returned to slowly circling around him. Terror had Vortex shaking, visor wide and blank, but he didn't need to see to feel how Overlord fell back into that self-satisfied, vaguely amused demeanor.

"I do hope what I just said makes it to your long-term memory files quickly enough. It would be such a pity if it got lost in the cache wipe. I would hate to have to repeat myself."

Processor still crippled by panic and cluttered by dealing with the energy field intrusion, Vortex didn't have time to consciously register the threat before his spark constricted. Comprehension caught up as the hulking officer stepped in front of him and stopped, observing him with a patronizing little smile.

"Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You were about to enlighten me on what aspects of our Supreme Commander's orders you disagreed. You may proceed now," Overlord said.

Vortex screamed.

_**[Warning: shutdown imminent.]**_

As the warnings started cascading inexorably, all he could think of was the need to escape, to get out of reach of this terrible being that was breaking his mind into shiny pieces in order to arrange them prettily afterwards. Pretty shiny pieces that resembled Vortex not at all but faithfully reflected Overlord's visage.

Unless he managed to leave this place, everything Overlord had promised would come true. He had to get out of here.

And then Vortex dissolved away into black nothingness.

.

.

.

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	13. Chapter 13

**.**

**0 0 Part Thirteen 0 0**

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Darkness.

He'd never cherished it before now. Right until that moment, he'd been indifferent to it at best and reminded of excruciatingly silent vorns at worst. He'd had no optic sensors in the Box to register as black, but the lack of input hadn't stopped him from being conscious enough to know he couldn't see. While he wasn't _afraid_ of the dark, not like Brawl, Vortex hadn't felt much of anything toward it, either. It had been an asset and a tool not unlike a scalpel for use on those of his victims weak enough for that tactic, but he'd never thought of it as something that _felt_ good. Not until now.

Vortex didn't know how long the last reboot had taken, nor how long he had been in emergency recharge. He'd gone from one to the other without enough pause to notice the change. He hadn't even onlined completely in between. As soon as all the essential bits had become functional, his frame had powered down on its own out of complete exhaustion and scrambled processors. Letting his mind stay down had been a small mercy. He had a feeling he wouldn't have enjoyed what restarting had felt like.

The 'copter regained consciousness groggily, processors spooling up to online status as the defrag procedures finally closed. His visor lit slowly, registering black emptiness, and his circuits sang with relief. The room was _dark_ and _empty_. There were no red optics watching him, and no one waiting. His few uncovered proximity sensors confirmed that there was no one behind him, and his vents eased out the tense in-vent he'd involuntarily sucked in. He was alone, and that was _everything_ right now.

No Overlord in sight meant no more rebooting. No more exploitation of a weakness Vortex hadn't known he could fear quite so much. What he wouldn't _give_ for the clumsy attempts to glitch him from the other Decepticons. There were annoyances, and then there was Overlord, and Vortex vastly preferred the other Decepticons' irritating, somewhat painful pranks to the triple-changer's precision cruelty. A good portion of his processor was still so terrified at the prospect of further torture that it kept boosting proximity scans to the top of his priority queue.

_Ping_. Nope, no one nearby. Vortex was perfectly alone, and this was good.

It was also odd. Not the solitary confinement - that was, sadly, nothing new - but the circumstances of his imprisonment had changed. The lights had never switched off in this room. Throughout his enforced stay at Chez Overlord, the lights had remained on. Vortex had first assumed it was some kind of simple mind-fragging technique, one more thing to prevent him from measuring time, but eventually he'd realized that was unnecessary. The triple-changer didn't have to pull any tricks with lights; Overlord could actually do the real thing and just leave him in this room for ages. Time-wasting didn't seem to be much of an issue for Overlord.

The lights had probably been left on because of an automated system, then, meaning that they had to have been deliberately turned off. It didn't make sense, which worried the Combaticon. Why darkness after so long?

It went from being a comfort, an assurance of solitude, to a concern in the space of an instant. Overlord had done it. There had to be a sinister reason why -

The faintest _clang_ of metal on metal sounded, and Vortex's processor urgently accessed his scanning hardware for updates. Proximity sensors_ping-ping_ed worriedly, and his visor bleached for a second as he pored over the results repeatedly just in case he'd missed something the first four times. Nothing registered.

The noise happened again, however, and then again, and one side of Vortex's visor twitched nervously as metal dragged _scrrrrrrrrd-klik-klik_ from somewhere to... somewhere. Somewhere distant, or were the sounds just very quiet? He didn't know. The series of clinks and draggings repeated in a cycle, either far away or just lightly done, until he was jittery with _ping-ping-ping_s and frantic data analysis.

The noises stopped. He had no idea if that was a good thing or not.

The sounds brought to his attention another change in the room: the door was open. He could only see the wall opposite considering how he was bound, but he could barely see anything at all with how his optical sensors had only the light of his visor to work with. Every other sensor was muffled by plastic or had been taken offline through the connections with his weapons' system, but he strained his few uncovered proximity sensors at that open door. For all he knew, Overlord was just outside the door. The mysterious noises were alarming because he didn't know their source.

The echoes had never been so noticeable; he had no idea if they were normal noises that the door had previously filtered out, or if Overlord was rearranging the corpses of his enemies today. Or perhaps the noises were utterly normal, but not being able to see was making his processor prioritize the audio feed more than usual? Corpse-arranging could be one of Overlord's regular hobbies, and Vortex's audios had just logged the noises as background until today. Vortex couldn't tell, but it didn't matter that much. What mattered was _who_ was making that sound.

Every sound could be Overlord taking a step closer. Every clink could be the triple-changer preparing to confront him again.

_Klak-ting!_

_Ping._ Alone? Alone. Was he sure? _Ping-ping._ Yes, alone. Good.

...no, seriously. Was he absolutely sure? _Ping-ping-ping-ping._

The 'copter fretted, trying to lean toward the open door as if he could catch more sounds that way. Had the fragger been monitoring him and was coming back now that Vortex was online? Could the quiet sounds be a drone? There was no way he was lucky enough that it was some other mecha. It had to be Overlord - or a drone. Please let it be a drone!

He didn't think he could face Overlord right now. His tanks were roiling with anxiety, and his rotor hub was flexing helplessly inside its rewrapped plastic prison. His shoulders tensed and failed to move as another tiny sound drifted through the open door:

_Shffff._

_Ping-ping-ping!_

Sick gratitude pulled at the base of his spark when his scanning hardware insisted there was no one there. He wasn't even sure who he was grateful _to_, but some cosmic entity had decided Overlord wasn't about to walk into the room, and therefore Vortex was grateful to it. Two more paranoid pings revealed the same lack of anything nearby, and Vortex's tense cables trembled slightly as they relaxed. He was safe, for the time being. He didn't know for how long, but he couldn't do anything about that so he wasn't going to worry about it.

He was more worried about the odd anxiety creeping up on him. There was nervous paranoia about Overlord approaching, of course, but every time his scanning hardware updated, a different anxiety washed over him. It had a different source, one that felt odd and contradictory, and he was trying very hard not to think where those pangs of uneasiness were coming from. Something under the surface of his mind curled in on itself, starting to crave, and this was _not_ the time to think about that.

Vortex squirmed restlessly, resetting his visor rapidly since it was the only pseudo-motion he could manage. He _wished_ he could blink away the kneading claws starting to perforate his mind. Claws of need worked at the underside of his thoughts, making his attempts at rational thought a little shakier by the minute, a little more ragged around the edges. Right now the burst of an air pocket wasn't important. It never was! It was just a tiny popping sound! But right now, even less important than usual.

Yes. Really.

Not thinking about it, he wasn't, nope.

_Plink._

_Ping-ping._ He tried to stop thinking about the bubble sound and dwelled on his relief that Overlord wasn't near. _Ping._ Yep, sure wasn't near.

That was a _good thing_, and smelt any part of his cortex that thought otherwise!

The Combaticon ripped his thoughts out of that well-worn rut and turned to hastily reviewing recent events. He had been outmaneuvered. All the pain and humiliation was secondary to that important fact. Which was exactly what it was, because he couldn't change it. It was a fact, and he had better get used to it real quick. He simply couldn't beat the other Decepticon at this game.

In reality, it wasn't a game at all, at least not anymore. It had probably ceased to be so a long time ago, but Vortex was - or rather, _had been_ - too proud to acknowledge that this was Overlord's game, not his. He was the toy. Helicopter-dolly didn't want to play, but like any toy, helicopter-dolly didn't have a choice. The point hadn't been ground into him this thoroughly until now, and now Vortex had been horribly humbled before it.

He couldn't think of any way to evade, bend, or block what Overlord was doing. As much as he had thought this very same thing before, the consequences were far more clear after the multiple forced reboots. He had never been more hard-pressed to find a solution, yet so bitterly aware that helicopter-dolly was going to be played with however Overlord wished.

Beyond the doorway, something went _clink-tonk._

Fear rushed through the Combaticon's systems. _Ping. Ping-ping-ping._

Alone! Yes, okay. That was...good. Wasn't it?

Yes, of course it was good. It had to be good! He wouldn't let it be not-good, because not-good would imply that he wanted something different than that, and he didn't. He didn't at all.

Vortex gritted his teeth and diverted what power he could to his sensors, combing the resulting tiny increase in data for what he could again and again. He would _not_ be cowed by this. It was a change in tactics, not a completely shift in circumstances. Darkness and an open door would not send him into a panic. Frantically guessing at whatever was going _tink_ in the dark was just wasting his time. He needed an answer, and for that he needed to concentrate.

Vortex _knew_ that Overlord would have to unwrap him eventually. His logic hubs assured him of the validity of that statement, and he could trust them for the moment, however useless they were the rest of the time here. So Overlord would have to return him to Earth when the benefits of Bruticus came to outweigh the amount of irritation Vortex had caused Megatron. _Lord_ Megatron, that was. Lord Megatron to him from now on, because the 'copter wasn't going to risk getting sent _back_ to Overlord's tender mercies once he was finally released. Chalk one triumph up for the fat-lipped fragger: the Combaticon was going to keep his head down for a while, keeping himself out of the Supreme Commander's sight and hopefully out of mind.

But for that escape to happen, Vortex would have to either wait until Megatron decided Bruticus couldn't be spared from the war effort anymore (and what a fantastic strategy that has been so far), or he'd have to...comply.

The word tasted like crude petroleum in Vortex's mouth, thick and disgustingly organic, but it was the purest drop of fine high-grade to his deep code. It thirsted for that compliance. Everything below the uneasy calm of his higher functions felt parched, just waiting to soak up orders and directions like an obedient sponge until his machine beast waxed fat and happy under an outpouring of officer approval. That was the part of him seeping a poisonous anxiety counter to his more rational fear.

The uneasiness grew, and Vortex couldn't ignore it. He tried, but the need was carving out great chunks of his willpower. His pathetic, already frail strength of conviction had been drilled through by the facts at this point, but now the need to _not_ be alone was undermining even the flimsy skeleton left over. The craving had been closing in to usurp his fear. Rationally, he feared that Overlord would return, but that would imply that Overlord _wouldn't_ return, and -

Vortex, _focus_ for frag's sake!

Overlord had been running this rigged game from the first, just playing Vortex, but even through all the pleading, the Combaticon had always nursed his defiant spark...hadn't he? He wasn't sure anymore. He'd been doing exactly what the sadistic slagger wanted so far. He'd bent, contorting like a pretzel. He'd begged for the stupid plastic bubble because he hadn't had an alternative. To his gestalt-links, it was either scramble after the teensiest substitute or go crazy, and the gestalt-coding was the part that controlled him when the training began. He begged because he didn't have a choice. It was either bend, or be overridden by his body and code when the blasted plastic was in Overlord's hand.

He had never _wanted_ it. The sound itched through his fuel lines, but he didn't want it. His spark pulsed with greed at the thought, however, and strained to hear it. There were little tetchy sounds of internal gears turning, and the gurgle of fuel in his tanks. They were unimportant, and he couldn't hold onto them. They slid away, ignored background noise that didn't matter because that one lovely, horrible, all-too-brief sound was absent.

His spark gave a funny little backflip when another noise echoed in the dark. It would have been unimportant, too, but Vortex didn't know what it was.

It could be Overlord!

_Ping-ping! Ping._

Not Overlord. The Combaticon's fuel pump hammered in his chest, and he couldn't quite tell anymore if the results reassured or disappointed him. Either way, his pump rate steadied again. For the moment, anyway. It'd pick up the second he heard another noise, he knew. He was still alone. Everything was good, and perfectly fragged up.

He could feel how bad off he was. He turned inwards, pulling up his own system logs to check. He watched, nauseated, as his logs showed just how his functions had been taken out of his control. The danger of another forced restart should have remained at the top of his priority list. He could easily call up the files from the month after being reactivated under the loyalty programming; the danger of cold reboots had led to his CPU constantly reminding itself that certain thought patterns had to be avoided, certain mecha had to be avoided, certain behaviors had to stop. When he compared then and now, his spark lurched. Instead of that entirely reasonable reaction this time, the restart warning signs and associated caution had been consistently kicked down the priority list one proximity ping at a time.

Tags for the - _frag Primus and His rusted creator aft!_ The slagging pop sound had worked its way back up the list! The fragging _statis protocols_were active again! How was that even possible? Had the darkness triggered them to activate faster? Had rewrapping shut off his coolant pumps again out of sheer, blasted familiarity? How long had he been in recharge?

How had Overlord _done_ this to him?!

There was an undertow building in the back of his head. It strengthened, sucking at his conscious mind, and Vortex made a muted sound of despair. The support structure for his programs was starting to insistently nudge him in the cables, asking for more proximity checks, but Vortex feared they had little to do with reassurance. His deep code wanted something very badly, and very persistently. The fact was that Overlord had him exactly where the triple-changer wanted him in order to exploit the needy internal metal creature that was Vortex.

He didn't want to, he truly didn't, but the 'copter couldn't stop himself. There was no sound, but now there didn't have to be. Now, the silence triggered him.

It was an extremely familiar situation to be in.

_Ping._ He waited, straining to catch something and hating himself for _hoping_ to do so. _Ping?_

The Combaticon knew the sounds of Overlord's systems, every single hiss of his hydraulics and the two-toned heavy clangs of his stride. Vortex yearned to hear the buzzing thrum of a large power plant he had only heard while idle. He wanted to listen to the minute creaking of multiple layers of armor-thick altmode kibble from a mecha made for three transformations. He had catalogued the sounds once, trying to find anything in them out of boredom and a desperate search for some weakness in the officer. His analysis of the sounds had yielded nothing except familiarity. Overlord's system-sounds were as intimately familiar to him as the sound of his own combiner team by now.

He longed so _badly_ to hear them. That, and the other set of sounds he had internalized to a close meld into his own desires that no lover and not even his own combiner team had managed. His gestalt bond itself longed for the slight, slick scrape of soft plastic against polished metal. He wanted the tiny squeaking sounds of air and plastic under almost enough pressure.

What would he do for those noises? No, what _wouldn't_ he do? That list was shorter, and getting shorter the more time that passed. He obsessed over that list, picking out the options he thought would please Overlord the most and wondering vaguely how he could get ready to do them. Because if Overlord was gracious enough to allow him the chance, Vortex wanted to be ready. Had to be ready, and he'd be sure to thank his officer for the opportunity to show how obedient he could be. He imagined what he'd have to do to demonstrate what a good subordinate he was and shivered, but even as horror chilled the inside of his tanks, he wished fervently that Overlord would come soon.

The Combaticon knew the triple-changer could walk in any klik now. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, or - or maybe next _month_, and he shuddered at the thought. He could barely wrap his cringing mind around the concept of not having even the smallest chance at earning Overlord's fickle favor for that long. Forgiveness was too much to hope for, but if he was exceedingly lucky, Vortex might be able to…regain his officer's attention? The tiny opportunity to not be looked at as a disappointment? If he could somehow manage that, then he could do his best to earn some leniency, just enough to be _permitted_ to follow orders.

And then...and then perhaps, just maybe, Overlord might eventually see fit to reward him with that precious, all-encompassing noise. The burst of a single bubble...

The plastic around the Combaticon's head crinkled slightly when he jolted, snapping out of his reverie. His visor slid to its widest extension, and he whimpered somewhere in the back of his throat as he realized just how low he'd sunk.

Vortex had spaced-out thinking with dreamy longing about Overlord's systems and, yes, driving his scanning hardware senselessly with nonstop pinging trying to get positive feedback. He had no idea how long he'd zoned out. Several kliks, at best. Hours, at worst.

He wanted to vomit. If he could only purge the twisted, artificial craving like tainted fuel!

The discrepancy flared in his mind, an almost physical line where internal code clashed against his conscious thoughts. It was unstoppable. The wild craving deep inside rose to the surface, pushing against what he knew was logical, and he could see it subsuming him. It stained his thoughts, spreading like dye through a sponge, and it turned him inside out without a single concrete reason. He wanted everything he shouldn't, and Vortex was helpless to stop the _need_ gutting him, slow and excruciating.

He was terrified of Overlord's return, as it would most likely bring more forced restarts. After what he'd been put through, it was painfully clear the officer was doing whatever he wanted. The game was meant to make Vortex suffer, no matter what other goals would be met at the finish line. What Overlord wanted was to cause the Combaticon pain and panic, and he'd found the right button for that. Overlord had discovered how to make Vortex _squirm_.

Vortex had gone under screaming, and he knew that he'd shriek for mercy if Overlord threatened to repeat the torment of multiple reboots. Vortex was a warrior, an interrogator, and not a glass sculpture by any means, but he was a Cybertronian. He could only take so much, and Overlord had found the button labeled _'Breaking Point.'_

The Combaticon had suffered a sparkbox already. He knew what enough deliberate mistreatment could do to mecha's mind, and he'd experienced a tank-sinking dose of that medicine himself, enough to make the link between a new Box and that particular punishment. He couldn't go back in the Box again. He just couldn't.

The problem being that Overlord had found that magic button to push. Why should he let up on it? Would Vortex have, if their positions were reversed? No. Primus help him, no. He wouldn't have, and Overlord made Vortex look like an Autobot. He could admit that now, facing the fact that he was outclassed and outmaneuvered and so screwed drills were envious. Overlord was going to mash that loyalty programming key over and over again for the sheer, unadulterated sadistic joy of watching Vortex self-destruct.

Overlord had already made good on his promises. However much Vortex hated it, his coding had undeniable learned. The metallic beast uprooting his logic hubs like a cyberhound digging up a rusted girder would sit up and beg on command. More importantly, it _wanted_ to. It knew that just being allowed to scrape and plead for the opportunity to obey would be a mercy beyond mercies after Vortex's stupid act of defiance. Not that Vortex himself didn't regret every moment of his ill-fated attempt to defy Overlord, but his internal code-creature was ready to throw him out of the driver's seat and start submitting all over the place if he didn't do it first.

Vortex _would_, as Overlord had promised, be grateful. His deep code _would_ adore Overlord as it followed his every command. Vortex wouldn't have a choice about that, because everything but his higher functions had been tamed to heel, and even those were glumly coming to terms with reality.

What could Vortex expect, when - not if, please not _if_ - Overlord returned? The addicted junkie inside Vortex's structure knew what disobedient little untrained subordinates could expect: deprivation. Overlord might even _punish_ him this time, and Vortex's spark shriveled at the thought of what the triple-changer would consider punishment. Months alone? Statis-lock? Complete abandonment?

Primus spare him, he'd been put through so much already that the mere idea of something new terrified him. The unknown had become scary instead of an open possibility. The training was safe. Incredibly terrible, but at least Vortex knew what to expect.

But he'd disappointed Overlord. The Decepticon officer was under no obligation to give him another opportunity to prove himself a good subordinate. The massive mecha could just come back whenever he wanted a bit of entertainment, when he wanted to watch Vortex crash again and again, not when there was training to be done. Vortex desperately tried to hold onto the knowledge that Bruticus was important, the Combaticons as a united team were valuable, but his conviction slipped through his fingers as fast as he could gather it. Was he a worthwhile soldier given to a harsh trainer as a pet project, or just an amusing reward for a sadistic officer?

He didn't know, and that scared him. It scared him, and that made him want the relative safety of the training even more.

Before, Vortex had wanted the bubble. He'd wanted it, and had been willing to do anything to get it. The tiny, infinitesimal chance of earning his fix of the popping noise had been worth total obedience.

Now Vortex had gone one step further. He'd transitioned from wanting the bubble - the spurt of substitute gestalt activity, his fix - to craving the conditioning itself. There was no reward without training, after all. He couldn't be a good 'copter for his officer if his officer didn't command him.

The part of Vortex that recognized himself as a conscious being was on the metaphorical losing side. It could _see_. It could watch the other part, the metal code-beast of raw instinct and basic program cradles, and it marked the conditioning's progress on that subconscious creature. That self-aware part of him was the part plunging into a sort of numb terror in slow-motion. It could see how the training had gradually tuned his systems to the sound of its need, amplifying the _ache_ for the noise that Overlord had carefully written between the lines of his gestalt code.

The I-Vortex piece of the Combaticon's mind writhed under the weight of the warped code, but as much as he disagreed with the changes, it was impossible not to listen to them. He _had_ to listen. A large, growing part of him _wanted_ to listen, because that was what _Overlord_ wanted him to pay attention to. The triple-changer had made sure to cut off every other path.

The conditioning told him to be a good soldier. To be silent and turn left at the command of _'left,'_ right at the command of _'right.'_ It reminded him of his place under Overlord's feet, his place in the Decepticon ranks under his officer, and the meek internal creature also known as Vortex listened.

And because that part of Vortex listened, Vortex's vocalizer automatically prepared itself to apologize and beg. His body twitched inside the plastic, circuitry itching under his armor as it tried to become more receptive and ready to pay the most dedicated attention to the subtleties of Overlord's electromagentic energy. Anything, any hint at all in that EM field, might help him parse what the right answer was.

In all of this lay the nebulous possibility of someday earning the bubble reward, and perhaps even, although it was probably too much to dare hope, maybe he wouldn't have to be afraid of being restarted again. If the training resumed, and he was obedient enough. If Overlord thought he was worth training anymore. If the officer cared to even consider the idea of continuing to train the disgraceful disappointment that was Vortex.

It was sickening that Vortex thought that, but a large portion of him believed it was true. He _was_ a disgrace, and a sticky, sorrowful ball of regrets and shame for his behavior made a lump in his tanks that wouldn't process. He knew it was the conditioning speaking, not his own thoughts, but he still couldn't stop blaming his faults for Overlord's absence right now.

The Combaticon hated himself so much right then, Overlord wasn't even a close second. Undiluted self-hatred for his weaknesses and idiocies and - and smelt him, all the _mistakes_ he'd made, he'd been a rusted moron from the very start! That kind of hatred was far richer than anything that could be directed at anyone else.

In the middle of his self-loathing, Vortex felt himself accept the facts. The popping sound was now a basic necessity in his life. Fuel, coolant, safe refuge, gestalt bond, and the _**POP**_. Not necessarily in that order.

Because he _was_ Vortex, drowning as he was inside his own mind, he knew how this warped, distorted, horrible situation worked. Overlord had made sure he was aware, curse him for a fool, and therefore the 'copter could translate the necessities into appropriate real-world terms: Fuel, coolant, safe refuge, gestalt bond, and obey, beg, grovel all over the floor, cater to Overlord's every whim, and ultimately hope for mercy. Definitely not in that order.

He raged against it, hot fury rushing through his tubes like fuel as he tried to do something, anything, but no. His body was held physically helpless, and Overlord had stripped his mind's defenses away line by line. The craving had nothing to do with logic, or even will. It just was. It had etched into him by an external source, and it was solid like the blasted metal he stood on - that was, if he wasn't suspended above it by untold layers of plastic. Aha ha. Ha.

…he was so screwed.

Vortex's visor had gone the lifeless, dull red of a drone's optics. Something far away made a noise, but his auto-response scan was listless. Behind his face mask, his mouth didn't hold any expression. The reality of his situation left him feeling bitter and hollow. The defiance was still there, but the _ability_ to defy Overlord's training had been torn from him. That was the truly diabolical part of the slagger's methods: Vortex's mind hadn't been changed about anything, but Overlord had steadily taken away all choices but utter obedience.

He had been looking for a solution? There was no Primus-fragged solution. There was no way to eel around the conditioning, and he couldn't escape this plastic blanket prison Pit. Even if he could think of a way free, he couldn't think the changes back out of his coding! He couldn't so long as the loyalty programming ruled him, and that certainly wasn't about to disappear. The gestalt code had his machine substructure under its sway, leaving half of his processors already warmed up to the idea of being Overlord's...whatever the frag the sadistic glitch wanted him to be.

Vortex felt a strong pang of agreement from somewhere deep and gurgling with machinery. _Happy_ agreement, like a cyberpuppy wriggling in glee at the sight of a treat, but it was him responding to the subservience slathered throughout that last thought. It was him, the part gaining ground every day that his conscious mind couldn't suppress, and the 'copter keened softly in response. It was a little sound, choked by self-hatred and honest sorrow.

Overlord didn't even had to do anything more. Vortex's processor was already corrupted enough that hearing -

The 'copter paused. That last thought struck a note in him. Something about hearing was important.

He took that fragmented idea and turned it over in his head.

That...could be a solution, perhaps. A poor excuse for one, but right now, a lousy attempt was still better than nothing. It was the blasted _sound_that triggered the cascade of screeching nightmare desperation, right? Sure, he wanted the touches, but it was the stupid bubble popping sound he craved with the all-consuming need of an addict. But, like mecha addicted to circuit speeders, it was possibly to break an addiction if the mecha were physically separated from the next fix.

Maybe, if the other Combaticons were present, or at least other Decepticons to fulfill the itching, crawling _need_, Vortex would be able to to wean himself off the inane plastic air pocket. Lacking that option, however, quitting cold might still be an option. No, he couldn't alter his core programming back to normal, but he might be able to just outright escape the stimulus/response cycle that was feeding the trained behavior. Maybe he could avoid activating it entirely, if he could get away from the triple-changer and his code-deep conditioning. Bodily away, putting enough physical distance between them to prevent himself from hearing Overlord's orders and thus falling prey to the sick urge to place himself under the triple-changer's heel.

Theoretically, the plan was solid. The bubble noise was what brought him to his knees, and it was going to be absolute torture to power through the junkie-cravings for that auditory drug. Yet if he could escape Overlord, he could find someone else to fulfill his gestalt-link's pathetic need for interaction, and that should keep the torment down to a mere stroll through the Pit. Other mecha would keep his overactive statis protocols down even if the physical activity didn't, and once he got clear of Overlord, Vortex would beg, borrow, bribe, threaten, or stow-away back to Earth and his combiner team.

Iron ore and _scrap_, even thought of combining with his team made his systems twist tight and hot. Combining had to be enough to break the conditioning's hold on his gestalt code! As for the bubble noise, well, the plastic from _from_ Earth; there had to be more somewhere on the planet. He could pay Swindle to find him some, and from there work on reducing his dependency himself. Most important of all, once he reached Earth, he could go before Megatron - _Lord_ Megatron - and convince the Supreme Commander that returning him to Overlord's tender mercies was unnecessary.

Then he could actually be free.

He just had to get away from Overlord. Out of sight and audio range completely, because if Overlord held the bubbles over his head or gave him an order, Vortex's plans would collapse like Onslaught's strategy had before Shockwave's troops. A direct order would be bad enough - the 'copter wasn't too sure he could defy those anymore - but Overlord knew how to knock the struts out of him, now. Given half a chance, Overlord would trigger the loyalty programming, and everything would be over.

Getting away was the plan. It didn't bring him hope. Not like Vortex had assumed having a plan would. Cooperation was the only strategy left to him, because only by Overlord's grace would he be released from this plastic-bound Pit. If he was cooperative and a good subordinate Decepticon who never contemplated insolence toward his superiors, eventually Overlord had to free him.

That, of course, relied on Overlord returning, which he wasn't so sure would happen. He hoped, but no. He _had_ to believe Overlord would return, or he would go mad with fear.

So, at some point in the - dear Primus, please let it be near - future, Overlord would return. Vortex didn't know how much torment and training it would take until the triple-changer unwrapped him enough for escape to be viable, but he had to be prepared to go along with the fragger's disturbing games. 'Copter-dolly needed to stay alive and sane, so 'copter-dolly would be his cruel officer's plaything. He would be an obedient entertainment in order to get his sanity-preserving bubble-pop...for a while longer.

That time period was going to be like being force-fed toxic waste swill not even Swindle could sell. Vortex was going to have to eat his words, purge them back up, and slurp them down again with piles of groveling humility heaped on top of every moment of compliance from now on. The Combaticon trembled inside the layers of plastic as he thought about what to do when Overlord returned. This was going to be most unpleasant. Temporary, yes, he clung to that thought, but it was little comfort.

Because Overlord _would_ return. Please.

_Ping-ping. Ping? Ping?_

Vortex shuddered violently, backwashed in aching need swirled with fading relief. The ache won out in the end, as he'd known it would, and the metal beast curled up around his spark whined quietly using his vocalizer. His code firmly suggested the the natural thing to do, the _right_ thing to do. It was a suggestion only in that he either did it or his sniveling base structure would do it for him while he futilely protested as a passenger in his own mind.

The 'copter sighed and begun choosing his words carefully. Perhaps, if his pleading used pretty enough words while debasing himself entirely, if it was honest enough and appealed to the rusted afthead's vanity and pride, if he managed to convey just how much, how _much_ he was sorry...maybe.

He wasn't done fighting yet, strange as this battleground was. Vortex wasn't that easy to break. He just hoped Overlord didn't figure that out before he was more than the sound of rotor blades fleeing in the distance.

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	14. Chapter 14

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**0 0 Part Fourteen 0 0**

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The secondary security monitor bank in Overlord's living space was almost dark, its links to the control room disabled but for a few pieces of still-functioning tech scattered throughout the base. Most of the salvageable installations had been taken out when the Decepticons abandoned this outpost. It'd been out of use for most of the war, and there was no need to refurbish an entire base for the use of two mecha and three drones. Overlord had requested the installation of new security monitors and sensors around certain areas, but those were turned inward and keyed to observe one specific 'copter.

He wasn't exactly worried about a sudden attack by Autobots. It'd be a nice bit of exercise, really. He'd personally spent some of his copious free time fixing up some of the perimeter alarm installations just so he'd have some warning to put down his bookfile before an attack. That, and idle boredom. Some interest in keeping his hand in on repair work, too. It wasn't often that he found himself needing mechanical expertise, but it was always useful to maintain an unexpected skillset. Mecha like Vortex never expected powerful officers to be able to do more than use their fists, but as Overlord had proven multiple times to the smaller Decepticon, physical threat was only one of his many tools.

He was formidable enough physically that he'd left the outpost's defensive installations as nothing but rusted hulls. Fixing up the perimeter alarms had required rewiring and adjusting the transmitters to once again connect with the receivers at the outpost. It had almost been more work than originally planned because the control room inside the outpost had been stripped down to the wall paneling.

Overlord had left it a gutted room and instead run the bare bones of an alert system down to the room he'd claimed as his own. It was more comfortable there, with his stash of high grade and some truly fascinating reading files. He'd set up a secondary security monitor bank across from the set of screens he'd been using to observe his guest.

That bank had remained dark. Nothing moved on this barren rock but the two Cybertronians and three drones inside the outpost. The perimeter remained undisturbed.

It had, anyway, until a certain helicopter had barreled across it. None of the alarms had tripped, because the system was set up to detect invasions, not escapes. Overlord had been mildly amused by that oversight once he'd woken up from his nap. He'd even debated stirring himself to change the system parameters, but the ultimate goal wasn't to change anything here but one mecha: the Combaticon.

Vortex had been a fugitive for almost two weeks, now. Well, as much of a fugitive as someone who wasn't pursued and was free to come and go as he liked could be. Overlord certainly hadn't chased him. The feisty little mecha hadn't returned, either, and the security monitors had remained in power-save mode.

Except a notification from the furthest perimeter sensor had recently begun popping up. The screens had been completely dark for weeks, but roughly two days ago, a green line of glyphs had appeared:

**[Energy signature detected.]**

The accompanying coordinates came through a few kliks later. The sensor blipped, message delivered, and the green glyphs stayed steady until the next pass by the sensor registered a change. The energy signature retreated, the coordinates spooled out to the limit of the sensor's range, and then the screen went dark. Every few kliks, it blinked briefly as the system re-checked the information. Sometimes the energy signature was there. Sometimes it retreated out of range. Occasionally, one of the other sensors picked it up instead, and the green glyphs appeared on another monitor, coordinates always on the very limit of sensor range as if the unknown energy signature was testing the outpost's boundaries.

The presence warily circling the perimeter never breached the sensor ring. It never ventured past the alarm installations and set off any of the traps Decepticons usually left for unwelcome visitors. It never stayed still, coordinates always changing, but it never left for long. The glyphs disappeared but kept reappearing.

For the past couple of hours, it had danced in and out of that one particular sensor's range. After a while, it stayed within range. The green glyphs on the screen jittered often as if to disappear again, but instead they stayed steady. The coordinates had shifted a few times, but for the better part of the last hour they had remained unchanged.

Overlord looked at them, distracted from his reading. It didn't make much difference where exactly Vortex was, but the odd ducking in and out around that one sensor was curious nonetheless - or perhaps not. That sector wasn't close, but it did have direct line-of-sight. The 'copter must be able to see the base, if only as a miniature in the horizon.

The triple-changer couldn't see his errant guest, but he could see the reason behind Vortex's bizarre advance-and-retreat actions. He knew why the Combaticon hadn't moved for the last hour. It was simple psychological physics: two equal forces pulling in opposite directions on an object canceled each other out, rendering the object immobile.

Until one of the forces was altered, that was.

Overlord's lips quirked minutely upwards.

He had followed Vortex's progress across the surface ever since the helicopter had fled the compound. The sensor installations spotted across this planetoid's surface were sparse and didn't work more often than not, but Vortex had apparently been too caught up in panic to evade them at all. His headlong flight had favored speed over everything else. He'd made a quick straight line directly north. The line had gone on for several hours but paused when that route approached the base from the opposite direction. Sensors then began pinging online in a zig-zag slightly to the west, moving aimlessly around the hemisphere as Vortex attempted to find a direction that didn't result in leading right back around to the base.

It really was a tiny hunk of rock floating through space, however. Vortex could run all he wished; there was nowhere to go. The 'copter couldn't break even this planetoid's thin atmosphere, either, trapping him here.

Slow and inevitable, that realization had ground itself in. It was only possible to deny reality for so long. Vortex had eventually stopped running, because there was nowhere to run _to_.

The triple-changer's optics narrowed as his EM field pulsed with anger and anticipation. The briefest impatience swept through him: a desire to simply go out, find the rotary mecha, and start prying up thin strips of protoform plating until Vortex was just a mass of writhing circuitry. The moment passed, and he took another sip from the glass in his hand. He could see why the situation could be upsetting, but really, this was a minor setback when he took the time to think about it instead of reacting.

He had been quite convinced that the conditioning had been progressing perfectly. He'd assumed making use of the coercive aspects of the loyalty program would act as a deciding factor for the Combaticon's teetering willpower. Slamming into the unchangeable nature of Overlord's careful work should have been a catalyst for Vortex's conscious mind. It should have broken any lingering spirit and started internalizing the training, but the officer hadn't anticipated how well it would actually work.

Although it clearly hadn't in the end. Vortex had hidden his stubborn will under the collapse of all dignity.

It had appeared to work, in any case. The final outburst of defiance had been expected and normal, the natural defense of a desperate mind sensing itself on the verge of absolute surrender. It happened with all mecha, eventually. Overlord had been looking forward to how it would manifest in this particular pet project. Some of his victims tried to bargain, some tried to appeal to his compassion, and some, like Vortex, tried to threaten and use bravado. He'd been somewhat disappointed that the 'copter had gone that route. He'd been a bit curious of what someone like Vortex could bring to a bargaining attempt.

Instead of bargaining or sweet-talk, there had been insults. Tsk. So unoriginal and poorly thought out! It was almost enough to make Overlord feel a twinge of sympathy that something so inadequate had been the notorious interrogator's last act of defiance. The Combaticon's bluster had been more clawing desperation than clear thought, easily put down. The taunting might have worked on an inferior mind, but Overlord didn't do self-doubt. He wouldn't make such a stupid mistake as to second-guess himself because of the flimsy words of a captive.

It had been strange, however, that Combaticon had been caught unaware by the nature of the conditioning. How in Primus' name the mecha had forgotten to include the loyalty programming in his calculations, Overlord couldn't say. That wasn't the kind of fact that could be forgotten easily, especially by a professional who zeroed in on such flaws as part of his job. It was beyond-stupid negligence to leave such a weakness without a perpetual high-priority tag. He could understand the self-protection involved in not wanting to think about such a gaping, inbuilt, unsolvable problem, but Vortex had to have taken into account the destructive effects it could have. Ignoring it was idiocy.

The massive officer wasn't about to argue with the Combaticon's lack of foresight. He'd caught the pang of undiluted shock in Vortex's field when the information slotted into place, making it totally clear that the conditioning wasn't going anywhere, and hadn't _that_ been hilarious? Then, exploiting the thought-repression parts of the loyalty programming had produced the most delightful fear as the proud 'copter utterly lost control to code and program.

It'd been just lovely. Ah, if only that moment of breakage could be bottled like a fine vintage of high grade. Overlord would be considered a master decanter, but he'd horde every last drop to savor himself.

After the shrieking petered out under mechanical failure, Overlord had purposefully left the smaller Decepticon in a changed environment. Nothing important, really, but the darkness and opened door made the mecha trapped inside the plastic wrap feel even more abandoned. The isolation ensured he'd have nothing but his thoughts to look at and nothing to do but wait and ponder his situation. Overlord did like his projects to break themselves. Despite how he enjoyed physically and mentally devastating mecha, it was always much more effective when they did the work for him.

Ramming into the loyalty software's wall of repression and entrapment had served quite well in that regard. It'd driven the point home. By the time he had decided to return to the room, Overlord had been greeted by the most abject of electromagnetic signatures. Vortex's visor had fastened on him with all the desperate neediness of before, and twice the earnest submission. The little 'copter had strained toward him, whimpering softly in pleading, but Vortex hadn't dared speak. Oh no, that kind of disobedience was a thing of the past. Speaking out of turn and moving without permission had become anathema, and Overlord's pet project had embodied abject need to _obey_. The desire to burst into ugly, raw begging to be allowed to do so had been all but visible.

His gratitude had been palpable upon being granted permission to speak, as well. Overlord had absorbed that trembling wave of relief and smiled slightly at a job well done.

Vortex hadn't wasted his time with the familiar outpouring of terrified pleading. This time, it'd been one very carefully constructed plea. It'd been more of a recitation than anything, done under the pressure of Overlord's critical optics and crushing terror. It had been uttered in the tiniest of shamed whispers. Vortex had verbally melted to the floor. He'd oozed to Overlord's feet and groveled there in a sniveling pile of words debasing itself in every possible way. It'd been so humiliating the 'copter had actually shut down his visor in order to continue at some points.

Overlord had been slightly amused to hear such elaboration in the brink of a panic-glitch. Even stifled by the weight of active statis protocols, Vortex's systems had been overheated by fear. Every moving part had been twitching against the plastic as fight-or-flight instinct screamed inside Vortex's body. That wasn't an option, and the 'copter had taken the only available option left to him: submission. The piteous begging had grated the Combaticon's scoured pride down to nothing, but the wordy recitation wasn't surprising considering Vortex's vast memory bank of past victims.

The triple-changer had let the words continue without giving the pathetic little mecha any hint of whether they were pleasing or not. They were certainly very enjoyable, but the simplest pleasures were generally the most rewarding, and watching the 'copter flounder had been exactly that. Denying Vortex any reaction to play off of had made the recitation hitch and stutter along as fear shook the 'copter more and more. He'd waited and let the terror build, and eventually the words had run out.

It had taken a while. The most interesting - or perhaps, in hindsight, the most cunning - part of the entire performance had come in the last phrase. The finale, as it were. After the pleading and self-abasement had finished, Vortex had swallowed hard and stared up at him in frantic hope for some faint sign of approval, some confirmation that he'd done the right thing, that he'd done what Overlord wished.

Overlord had regarded him distantly, supremely unimpressed, and the Combaticon had...wilted, in a way. It had been impossible for him to move much, but still the little Decepticon had slumped.

He'd murmured, "I understand, sir," and gone silent, visor dull and flickering.

It had come with such a sense of desperation and acceptance, Overlord couldn't help but smile fondly. Vortex had given up, and he did so like to see that in his projects. Such a remarkable job he had done. It was satisfying to see his handwork at its purest, and the Combaticon was handily gift-wrapped to send to Shockwave as proof of Overlord's abilities. The temptation to do precisely that had almost swayed him, in fact.

Vortex had disguised his resistance extremely well. If Overlord didn't prefer doing the dirty work himself, the 'copter would be free to skitter out from under Shockwave's control right now. Let loose on Cybertron, it would have been a nuisance to track him down again.

But Overlord did prefer molding his projects himself, and he hadn't shipped the 'copter back to Cybertron. He'd prodded the plastic-wrapped mecha in front of him as if testing him for freshness and hummed thoughtfully to himself.

Hope had glimmered under the misery. The smallest sliver of interest from Overlord had been a holy blessing from Primus for Vortex.

Turning his back on the 'copter had invoked the saddest whimper of despair a vocalizer was probably capable of producing. Overlord had glanced back, making certain the point had been made: attention equaled a precious gift. One he did not have to give.

It had seemed Vortex understood that. He'd bent beautifully under the training when it resumed. He'd greedily grasped after every speck of time Overlord allowed him, striving to demonstrate that he was learning and was therefore deserving of being permitted to eventually graduate back into a Decepticon soldier instead of remaining in the status of a malfunctioning toy.

Two weeks of perfectly appropriate behavior had followed that day. The Combaticon had followed orders unerringly, as before, but the taint of rebellion had evaporated from him. Overlord had tested his pet project's resolve and left him session after session without a single reward, but Vortex had learned. Instead of howling pleas or demands, the mecha had keened and squirmed. At most, he'd respectfully _asked_ what more he could do to earn Overlord's favor, not even daring to directly plead for the bubble noise his gestalt coding craved. And, when Overlord coldly denied him it, 'copter had meekly accepted that decision. Overlord's whim had become the final word.

After that, when the officer had decided enough time had passed to resume the usual reward program, he given the Combaticon his useless little plastic air pocket noise, and Vortex's EM field had spangled fireworks of gratitude across a pleasure-filled backdrop. Structure-level addiction had left the smaller Decepticon limp and moaning quietly, unable to hide how a simple bubble pop left him shuddering with intense reaction. When Overlord returned for the next session, Vortex's very circuitry had been _happy_ to obey as a subordinate should.

Those unspoken actions had been much more telling than all the repetitive hours of meaningless requests being obeyed without question. Overlord had seen the resignation in that mindless obedience, which was what he had been patiently grooming since the first day the little scrapheap had arrived. It hadn't been perfect obedience, not yet, but it'd been well on its way there.

Or so he'd thought.

Overlord huffed in annoyance, one gigantic hand tightening on the armrest of his chair. He cycled air and looked over his own irritation with an analytical optic.

It was the failure to see the trick that bothered him. He _knew_ his way around the subtle language of sparks. He had trained himself through eons, far beyond mere academic knowledge, to be able to judge the difference between physical and mental breakage. He could discern what his sensors were feeding him on a level mnemosurgeons and medics envied. He had learned long ago to recognize the moment when a mind finally knelt alongside its frame.

He had been sure Vortex had reached that point. It was _annoying_ to have been proven wrong. From that day confronting the Combaticon, it should have been just a matter of polishing the final work, sanding down the ragged edges until the project was perfect and he could add it to his prized collection of successes. He considered his completed projects to be works of art. Vortex's refurbishment into a well-trained Decepticon soldier would have been an excellent addition to his portfolio of mental manipulation.

Overlord had miscalculated. That, or the Combaticon had an unusually predisposition for acting. Either way, the triple-changer had moved the conditioning on to the next stage too early, and now a significant portion of his efforts had been undone.

The hulking officer glanced up from his reading to regard the blinking green line of glyphs thoughtfully. They blinked on the screen until Vortex settled down again. Same coordinates as before. Interesting.

Perhaps his efforts hadn't been wasted after all. It wouldn't be the first time that Overlord had turned a mecha's attempt to escape into a round-about descent into the Pit.

Overlord knew he and Vortex had a number of points in common. The politics of the project had, of course, intrigued him, but it was the subject's similarities that had made this project particularly appealing. That, and the inherent difficulty in puzzling out how to rattle an amoral masochist.

However, their similarities were offset by their differences. Overlord was well aware of where their vocations differed, too.

He had investigated his subject thoroughly before accepting the assignment, and he'd discovered that Vortex had the sort of skill that came not only from practice but also a natural talent for inflicting pain. The 'copter had experience using every tools at his disposal - and he was capable of turning _anything_ into a tool - and he knew how and when to use them to most effect. He was manipulative enough to twist mecha around until they believed he was in the right, cunning enough to escape mostly unscathed when things went wrong, and had enough wits to survive when he couldn't turn situations to his advantage. Those were all handy attributes to have in times of war, so he had found an area where his talents could be used. It'd been a natural fit to become an interrogator, Overlord felt. Searching and extracting vital information from a reluctant subject's mind was a delicate craft. Vortex had taken his natural skillset and honed it until he became a true craftsman, a profession in inflicting the right amount of suffering until questions were truthfully answered.

That was a craft Overlord understood. He had more than dabbled in it himself, but Overlord? He was an artist. He took joy in witnessing what pain others dealt, but his true pleasure came from creating it himself. It wasn't his profession; it was his calling. Vortex used duty as an excuse to indulge in sadism, but there had never been a purpose to Overlord's actions other than the beauty of misery itself.

That wasn't to say there weren't side benefits, but where Vortex used his lust for pain as a means to an end - the end being interrogation - the sadism was the end for Overlord. It was the overarching purpose. If there was an eventual gain to be obtained through it, all the better, but no reason for it was stronger than the pleasure it brought to its creator.

Few mecha understood just how wonderfully intuitive and open to creative experimentation causing torment was, but it was a difficult topic to discuss. It tended to be a very subjective topic. Overlord couldn't be bothered to explain this to those who didn't have the sensibilities to appreciate it. The finer points of spinning agony out of various means and methods inspired more horror than academic interest, and experimentation often destroyed those rare mecha who shared Overlord's interests.

Vortex had been wonderfully intriguing raw material, a crossover between peer and subject, able to give live feedback if only in the form of futile protest. A sado-masochist was a new medium to be conquered for Overlord, an instrument in his hands for the first time, ready to be used to produce whatever Overlord wanted.

But Vortex had managed to slip through his fingers. He'd _fought back_. The insolent 'copter had somehow managed to mar what would have otherwise been a perfect accomplishment. That irritated Overlord. Vortex had technically obeyed every order, but he'd deliberately sought a way to evade the triple-changer's directives. Unlike a crystal garden that happened to grow an off-color vein, the Combaticon had _chosen_ to be flawed.

For that he would be punished. The coordinates on the security monitor danced nervously but settled back to where they'd started. It was as if Overlord's wandering subject wanted to leave but somehow couldn't manage. As if something were holding him tethered to visual range of the outpost.

Vortex had to know what return would mean. He could not possibly want to submit himself to Overlord again if he had enough spirit left unbroken to manage an escape. Yet he didn't flee further, and that told the officer the conditioning had taken after all.

No, Overlord's time and effort had not been wasted. In fact, if the big officer thought about it, this was really just a vacation within a vacation. It was time free of all responsibilities as Vortex took over his own torture. Overlord could just relax until the 'copter delivered himself, properly broken at last.

Overlord knew what had to be done. He wasn't arrogant enough to assume his method was infallible. He'd drawn out the torment, enjoying himself instead of closing the noose around the troublesome helicopter's rotor hub, and Vortex had taken advantage of the slack to slip the knot. Overlord would have to make certain that was no longer an option. It would require starting the process from the earliest stages and waste valuable time in reinforcing already-taught behavior, but that was a necessary evil. At least this time around, Vortex would start out with a clear picture of what his chances of dodging the process were.

That was to say: none. Because even the Combaticon's current freedom wasn't really. It was a temporary reprieve, and it had come to an end, if the jittery coordinates on the screen were anything to go by.

The annoyed part of Overlord which had wanted to go out there and gut the unruly imbecile contemplated his revised thoughts on the situation and stood back to watch the show. There might have even been a self-satisfied purr from his power plant.

When the coordinates on the screen stabilized this time, one of the numbers had gone up by one. It seemed that the two psychological forces pulling in opposite directions were no longer equal. The object held between them couldn't remain immobile, now.

Yes, this incident had wasted _some_ of his time and effort. Vortex had dared to smudge what would have otherwise been a spotless project record. Yet it hadn't negated the progress made. Vortex's temporary escape had merely set the project back and taken another route to the initial goal. The whole situation would still produce one Decepticon soldier, ready for service.

Overlord would just extend the process now that his offended pride was roused. Vortex had been a peer and a piece of artwork before, but this had abruptly become _personal_.

He rose from his chair to refresh his glass. His optics studied the line of glyphs for a moment, but then he returned to reading comfortably. Vortex could fidget out there all he liked, looking for a way off this rock. There was no escape. What Vortex was trying to get away from was inside him, chewing on his mind, and eventually the Combaticon would succumb to it.

Chasing his errant victim down was unnecessary. Not when only Overlord's hands could supply what Vortex needed.

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	15. Chapter 15

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**0 0 Part Fifteen 0 0**

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Vortex tried to initiate recharge manually for the third time to no avail. The command went nowhere, like clicking an exit button on a window repeatedly only to have it stay open anyway. He ran an internal diagnostic scan, which pinned the unresponsive idling of his processors to the excess of high priority tag-warnings filling his cache. Those had to be whittled down before the recharge command could go through.

He wondered why it didn't just say, 'Too fragging keyed up to power down.'

The diagnostic program politely instructed him to clear at least 50% of the stacked queue before attempting to retry. Clicking away only added further clutter to the list.

The problem was that his processors weren't dealing with the warnings. They couldn't. The reason the warnings were high priority was because Vortex's gestalt code was in total upset, and nothing - nothing - he had tried had soothed it even remotely. He actually considered himself rather fortunate that he hadn't been able to break the lockdown on his weapons systems. There had been times the aching not-pain had carved his self-control down into skeletal fingers too weak to push the Gatling guns away from his own helm. His shaking arms had been holding them there, pulling the triggers over and over again as his head burrowed into the grubby rock of this horribly small planetoid and his support structure screeched in need for what he couldn't give it.

Initiating forced recharge had been his last-ditch attempt to prevent suicide. It hadn't helped all that much.

Oh, it'd cleared his queue, but only after he'd made himself activate the loyalty software's shutdown protocol. That had been a new low for him, making himself think of different ways to undermine Lord Megatron's rule despite how dearly he wanted to be back under the tyrant's heel. Wanting to defy Megatron wasn't even a vague desire anymore, and it'd taken him an embarrassingly long time to stop wistfully daydreaming about going back to Earth and instead dredge up some hatred toward the Supreme Commander. The loyalty program had activated sluggishly the first time, at glacial speeds the second and third times. It'd gotten progressively harder to make himself think subversive thoughts when he knewbetter. Seeing unstoppable punishment bearing down on him sucked like a black hole.

Shutting down the hard way wasn't, obviously, easy. Doing it more than once had forced defragmenting and bought him time as his scrambled processors rebooted, but Primus spare his spark. He was only a Cybertronian. Masochist he might be, but there was only so much he could make his cringing body and mind do.

Especially when the payoff for the disorientation and punishing cold reboots was mere minutes of reprieve. He'd managed to make his body recharge, but it hadn't exactly been restful. And while he'd been knocked out, the craving had sunk its teeth back into his CPU. He'd come back online to the same situation he'd desperately tried to flee.

A red strip of light flashed across the dark landscape as he turned his visor toward the outpost buildings. There wasn't any point in trying to hide. He'd edged across the perimeter days ago, tucked in on himself in dread as he waited for Overlord to come out to claim him once he set off the intruder alerts. No alarm had sounded, however. The triple-changer hadn't set foot outside the building, so far as Vortex could see.

He had a fairly good view, so he was fairly sure he'd have seen Overlord leaving. Vortex was so close to the buildings now that he was literally in their shadow. He'd had to inch across the landing pad. He knew he was going toward his tormentor, and he knew the other Decepticon had to know he was out here. The distance didn't matter at all, realistically. There wasn't a single place in the whole ridiculously small planet that was far enough away. Nor close enough.

He needed to go back.

Frag his life.

The Combaticon looked at his hands and flexed them against each other, scraping the paint of his palms with his own fingers. It was a small, useless gesture. It was the first thing he'd done when he had gotten (stupid stupid **stupid**) free. It had felt strut-meltingly good to be able to make a fist, in those first moments. Everything had, really. Overlord had unwrapped him down to his elbows that day, and Vortex's body had immediately gone into a hyperactive state of feeling via intense anticipation.

He'd been good. Even in the middle of a storm of wild urges, he'd been a good subordinate. Obedience to Overlord's orders was law to his struggling spark. He'd done everything he'd been told, shrugging his shoulders and twitching his rotor hub on cue, and the fragger had been pleased enough by his behavior to leave him unwrapped. Vortex had been painfully aware that his circuitry had bled abject appreciation for that, but he'd shoved any hint of plotting out of his EM field. He'd been a good mecha, just a good soldier, and held out long enough to be sure Overlord had left him alone.

But then...oh. Ohhh. It'd been everything he'd waited for and more. He'd moved. He'd ripped through the plastic eagerly, feeling air touch his sensation-starved frame in places isolated for who-knew-how-long, and he'd landed in a heap on the floor. The awesome, fantastic floor he'd been kept from for untold time on end. Praise holy Primus and all hail Lord Megatron for the floor! He'd been deliriously happy for the amazing floor.

That instant of bliss had been closely followed by acute panic as he realized half his joints and hydraulic hardware was locked up after the months of inactivity. He hadn't even been able to bend over to manually work the lubricant back into his knee and ankle joints. It had taken dozens of hardware check-ups plus scooting over to force the bottoms against the nearest wall just to wiggle his feet. Mashing his fingers against the floor had been the only way to get his finger joints working enough to get a grip on the last of the plastic miring his hip joints. Dexterity had been a lost cause, not with every passing moment the moment that could herald Overlord's return. All he'd cared about was getting some basic motor functions working.

As soon as he could get his legs to support his weight, Vortex had lunged out of the room. He'd half-crawled, shaky and unsteady but finallygetting away. The wall had been his best friend as he'd stumbled through the outpost's corridors, proximity scanners feverishly working, alert to the tiniest sign of Overlord. He'd been unable to be quiet, not with how clumsy his body was, so he'd gone for speed.

At that moment, it had seemed so worth it. Even if he'd gotten caught at the next bend of the corridor, just being able to move had been incredible. That alone had been worth it. It had also been exhilarating to know he was, for the first slagging time, actively disrupting Overlord's game. The fat-lipped drone-fragger had held the advantage since Day One, but Vortex had beaten the odds to laugh in his face. Well, laugh behind his back. From a distance. A very large distance, because like the Pit was Vortex dumb enough to say anything but "Yessir, Overlord sir!"anywhere near the Decepticon officer.

That was how far he'd been beaten down, but yet he'd defied the conditioning. Yes. He had. He was incapable of disobeying a direct order, but the fragging idiot hadn't ordered him not to escape. No direct orders meant that Vortex could tear out of the plastic and get away, rubbing that blatant error in Overlord's face. Even if he'd been caught right outside the door, Vortex's point had been made. That was the sweetest reward of them all.

- no, wait. Not 'reward.' No-go word, right there. That was the sweetest...thing. A nice thing. It felt nice. Yes. 'Nice' was a good substitute for the words that his cortex had long since tagged relating to - stuff. Stuff he didn't want to think about. Things he'd attempted not to obsess over by instead glorying in Overlord's mistake.

That wasn't working so well anymore. It never had, truthfully, but Vortex was a stubborn mecha. His mind could take more abuse than his frame, but eventually he'd reached his limit. Trying to avoid thinking about…stuff…had gotten him this far, and unfortunately, this far wasn't far from Overlord. Whatever enjoyment and pride of accomplishment he'd gotten from the triple-changer's mistake had long-since been leeched away. He clung to the memory anyway.

A part of the Combaticon's mind he was trying to ignore advised him to relish the faded enjoyment now, because it was going to be a very long time before he had anything like it again. He could bleakly revel in his hollow victory while it crumbled to ash around him.

Another part of his mind he was trying really fragging hard to ignore told him he didn't deserve even that paltry echo of satisfaction. Of course, that was the part of him that had been saying he didn't deserve free movement since the second he'd started ripping plastic. It was probably the same part that shoveled angry red words into his cache and infected his rotor hub with an insistent itch of desire. Flight was a privilege he most definitely didn't deserve in the critical regard of that part of his mind, but anything that'd catapult him faster to Overlord's feet got the go-ahead.

Those parts of his mind were the parts of his intelligence that had succumbed to his internal metal beast. They kept ganging up on him. They wanted him to go inside the outpost right this instant, right now.

They had wrestled him this far. Vortex was losing to the pounding ache driving him crazy. If he had something sharp enough, he wouldn't hesitate to try and cut the persistent buzzing need out of his body somehow.

Hurriedly, he knelt and rummaged in his foot, opening his altmode's side hatch and sticking his hand in. It took a moment, and a tightening pressure in his chest released slightly when his fingers touched the flimsy plastic he sought. It made him feel small and shamed to have a torn piece of the bubblewrap stuck in his cockpit, but he retrieved it despite that. This was really not the time or place for a pretense of pride anymore.

He didn't even bother standing up again. Visor decidedly trained on the blocky buildings of the facility, Vortex balled the plastic up in one hand. That hand squeezed and turned the ragged sheet gently enough not to rupture the air pockets. He didn't want them to burst. He just wanted...he wanted the teensy squeaks of plastic on the verge of popping.

Crick. Sqrch-squee. Crick-ree.

The little noises went straight to the shivering thing crouched inside his head like a dose of coolant dumped into a lava pit. The substructure creature who'd consumed Vortex's logic hubs one resisting line at a time whined piteously, because the sound was not enough, not near enough. His hand kept scrunching the plastic, however. It was a sad lie all the sadder because he was telling it to himself, but the quiet crackling sound made the flaming hot ache a bit better. By an impossibly tiny amount, but something was better than nothing.

It wasn't the sound itself, but the nauseating uptick of hope from hearing it. It only lasted a few seconds before it ceased working, but that wasstill better than nothing. Because the sound came right before -

It remind him of when he was about to -

It made him think about when he deserved -

It sounded like that moment of judgment as -

...yes. That. He didn't have to think about it, he just had to - to do what he had to do to keep himself sane. Right now, that was the limit of Vortex's abilities. If he had to crinkle a scrap of plastic, then at least he had the plastic on hand. It was pathetic, weak, and so embarrassing not even a glitched-up Autobot would do it, but, well, so be it.

The Combaticon shoved the plastic back in his cockpit and stood. His knees shook slightly. Ignoring that, he walked towards a rusted-out defensive barricade to sit against it, facing away from the main buildings. He squirmed intently, rasping and bending his shivering rotor blades over the rusted holes until it made his interface hardware ping online and his vocalizer sputter a thin sound. Hurting himself this way was painful in that really delicious way he'd missed, and -

- and it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.

He hadn't disobeyed a direct order. He hadn't! That'd been his triumph over Overlord, but also the only way he'd hung onto his defiance this long. Overlord had never ordered him not to struggle free or leave the building, but frag. That rule-lawyering had only worked because he'd determinedly not thought beyond the moment. It'd worked to gather sufficient willpower to rip the plastic.

It hadn't helped him beyond that. Eventually, he hadn't been able to dodge the thoughts beating his mind into submission. He wasn't stupid, and the addicted, tremblingly raw part of himself that needed wasn't either. It insisted he return because he knew deep inside that he was disobeying. The order hadn't been given, but the gestalt code beast didn't need an order to know it should have overpowered him and done as expected.

To spite Overlord if nothing else, he'd saved up enough strength to fight back the raving junkie living in his body, but he hadn't managed to get away. That meant he had to face the consequences of revealing that hidden willpower. He had to go back.

Program cradles and machine structure agreed, relieved, practically throwing themselves to the forefront of his mind in order to urge this action. Vortex himself cringed in the back of his cortex as if he could disappear there. He needed to go back, had to, but he knew what was waiting for him. He knew, and so he dithered here.

He couldn't do it. Inside this outpost waited Overlord, and that made partially processed fuel roil in his tanks. Terror made his rotor hub unlock. He'd locked his rotor blades back into position for flight as soon as he'd gotten himself unwrapped, but now they slicked down in unconscious surrender. Overlord would be in there, in that place Vortex didn't want to enter, and the triple-changer knew what Vortex had done. Not just the escape, but the attempt to throw Overlord's error back in the mecha's face.

Fear welled up his intake, thick and cold. Frag. Frag his life, and frag him. Sideways, with bubblewrap holding him immobile and a side of vengeance roasting him on a spit, just to really made him regret living. Regret his stupid idea, too, and - and how in the Pit was he supposed to go back?!

The red visor was dark now. Vortex panted heavily through every wide open vent, wrapping his hands around his arms and gripping harder and harder until the metal started to dent under his fingers. He needed to go back. He couldn't do it, but he needed to. He had no choice. There was no uncertainty. He was going back.

Dodging reality wasn't working anymore. He'd known since the third day after fleeing the outpost that return was inevitable. He couldn't keep derailing trains of thought about popping noises or banging his helm against the ground forever, but he'd held the feeble hope for a few days more that he would be forced to return by some third party. He'd known he couldn't win, but he'd tried to resist long enough that Overlord would come drag him back himself. It'd have been another measly point Vortex could have chalked up on his own puny scoreboard against Overlord's crushing victory.

When it became clear Overlord wasn't going to stir himself to chase Vortex, the 'copter had started hoping that he could last until his fuel ran out. He'd have gone into stasis-lock in the middle of nowhere, which would have been sort of horrible but at least would have happened the natural way instead of in a way that reminded him of box-like prisons. He'd nearly fallen over the energon storage room on his staggering run out of the outpost, however, and a cargo load of energon cubes lasted a lot longer than Vortex's willpower apparently did.

He still vaguely entertained the idea of opening a major fuel line, right here and now. Surely Overlord would come out to fetch his offline body? Bleeding out would be ghastly, but it didn't even compare to the idea of walking back into that building. Vortex didn't want to go back, but he wanted even less to take responsibility for his actions. He didn't want this fretting, frantic worry about how he had to somehow re-enter Overlord's presence. He prayed the triple-changer would open the door right this moment and command him to come inside, just so he wouldn't have to make himself do it of his own initiative.

Just...he'd resisted enough to make a statement, if nothing else. If he'd only been able to fight it off long enough that the statement was definitive! He'd grasped after anything to delay for a while longer, trying to fall before something else, something other than this slagging servile desire to crawl back. Because if he did that, the only statement he'd managed to make was that Overlord had broken him.

That was the correct statement. The conditioning had worked. Dread filled his tanks to the brim, and aching want overflowed them. Not need for the bubble and the precious sound, but - oh, Primus. He'd found out the hard way that wasn't what he wanted, not anymore. He had the bubbles, didn't he? And hadn't that just worked out fine and dandy for him? Frag no. What he wanted couldn't be found out here. The looping cycle he'd tried to escape didn't even need to be activated by Overlord. Vortex existed, and therefore the conditioning did, too.

Therefore, he needed. He needed, and the need built up and up until he was a weapon and frail self-control away from permanently solving the problem. The only reprieve (it sure wasn't a cure) was available inside the base he stood in the shadow of, and rust his spark chamber, he needed it so much!

Vortex bent forward, forcing his hands away from where he'd been clawing at his helm in order to fumble inside his foot. Clumsy desperation tore the piece of plastic as he yanked it out of his cockpit. He didn't care. He just wrinkled it, again and again. The metal savage in his body wasn't soothed in the slightest. It howled a piercing, near-physical needle of need-ache-**want** straight up his back struts to impale the last of his resistance.

A bubble burst, but he didn't even notice the sound. It meant nothing. It didn't work unless the plastic air pocket was under the pressure of thosefingers, and Vortex was judged by the level stare from those optics and - and -

The Decepticon stood up, shaking like tinfoil in a windstorm, and started walking at an uneven pace toward the main building.

He had thought it would be harder. Vortex had thought that he'd have to take every step as if an invisible hand of protesting pride would try to hold him back. He had been completely mistaken. There wasn't enough ego left unburnt to put up anything resembling a fight.

A part of him - a large, strong, thriving, and extremely relieved part of him - was instead encouraging every second of his surrender. The training purred soft, approving static from his innermost code. This was good, it assured him. This was what he should be doing. His anxious, whimpering gestalt-links clung to that reassurance, and Vortex hated himself for latching onto the safety of the training again.

But, oh. Oh yes. The conditioning stroked through his shivery internal spaces like a master's touch on a pet who was finally doing right, and the majority of Vortex's broken mind curled around the directives. Returning like this, humbled to the ground and ready to fling himself at Overlord's feet? It was good. Resuming his proper place was the first step towards making things right. It would be horribly painful in a nonphysical way, but Vortex sickly found himself thinking he deserved that not-pain. Overlord would be angry, and justifiably so because Vortex had been bad, but ultimately, compliance was the only way.

His steps steadied, strengthened by his lack of options, and if he was still shaking and panting, it had nothing to do with resistance. Only with fear. Not even really for what was going to happen to him. The fear sprang from the thought that nothing would.

Because that would be just his luck, to break down and admit he had to crawl back to Overlord's tender mercies only to be refused. How on Cybertron could he convince Overlord to take him back? He'd defied the triple-changer. He'd run away. He'd been a disobedient, insubordinate soldier. Why would Overlord give him even a chance to earn the pop-noise reward ever again in his entire existence after this?

He didn't know. Vortex asked himself why Overlord would agree to take him back, but the only possible answer he could think of was revenge. Except Overlord didn't seem to get angry. For all the 'copter knew, this had all been part of the officer's plan.

He turned the situation this and that way in his head, but there was no viable answer. He'd just have to - to trust in Overlord's mercy and...uh. Right. That sounded ludicrous even to the part of his mind that wanted to believe it. Overlord had a history of giving him exactly nothing, and this was probably just the opportunity the sadist had been patiently waiting for to make his life twice the Pit it had been before he ran away. There was no way to avoid it, so at least that made it not his choice? Maybe?

His dull visor cast a faint red light on the ground as he looked down at the dust before his feet. The atmosphere of this joke of a planetoid was thin enough that it didn't really have weather. The wind hadn't erased the tracks he'd left when he'd fled. He could follow them right back to where he belonged.

That's exactly what he did, ending up in his own footprints outside the outpost's entryway.

Vortex stood there shifting from foot to foot awkwardly, needy and pathetic, and it gradually dawned on him that he had no idea what to do. He'd kind of assumed that of course Overlord would be waiting by the door to suitably grind in how low the Combaticon had fallen. Probably by making humiliating 'tsk-tsk' noises at him again. Or just by holding a roll of the plastic bubble-blanket at the ready.

Cold, gummy horror had congealed deep inside him at that thought, because all he could imagine was being forced to wrap himself up again while Overlord stood by and watched him. The officer wouldn't have even had to say anything. Vortex would have taken one look at the plastic and begun putting on the first layer of the familiar prison without question. That would have been horrid enough, but his spark cowered in its chamber from shame at the idea of being awake and aware, yet terribly cooperative as he offered his limbs one by one to the triple-changer for individual wrapping.

He'd have preferred being conscious as he was rolled into the plastic bubble-prison to...this. He'd have preferred anything to this. There was no Overlord, and no sign of Overlord. It was just...a door. It was a fairly standard door, reinforced and thick for defensive purposes. It was the sort that protected as much against sound as airstrikes. Even if he'd had his weaponry online, it'd have taken Vortex a decent amount of time to bust through this thing.

Vortex stood before it dumbstruck. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He approached the lock and pawed at it a couple of times, but of course that didn't work. The lockbox itself stayed stubbornly closed, denying him access to even try cracking the access code or imitate Overlord's palm signature or anything. It wouldn't open. Thus, the door didn't open.

He gave the door itself a tentative knock, but the thing was thick. He doubted any sound got through the buffer. When he finally figured out where the security camera was located, the thing looked as dead as the rest of the facility. That didn't stop him from standing underneath it, looking up with all the forlorn helplessness of a cyberpup locked outside during an acid rain storm.

What..? How..? This made no sense. The 'copter had absolutely no idea what to do now. He had given up. He was here. He was supposed to grovel his way into being permitted under the officer's command again. He was supposed to beg to be taken back. Overlord would be pissed or maybe amused, and Vortex had been expecting cruel forced restart upon forced restart, and -

- and not this. Not a blank door and silence.

He couldn't help himself. Vortex's wretched scraps of higher consciousness turned to his internal trained code-creature, appealing desperately to its wisdom, and it in turn appealed to the source of safety: the conditioning. Except that the conditioning had nothing to say about this situation. His program cradles twisted around his software in uncertainty, and his mind flinched inside the upset. All he wanted was orders to follow, but the outpost was silent.

Vortex's fingers scraped against his palms as his hands closed into shaking fists. It didn't feel good. It felt the opposite of good. He had what he'd wanted, now didn't he? How was that working out for him, huh?

With a muted whimper, the Combaticon flattened his hands against the wall under the defunct security camera and stared up at it. "Let me in." Was that his voice? It sounded like he'd been eating gravel and chasing it with lighter fluid. "Overlord sir, please. Don't leave me out here."

The silence ate everything: sound, safety, sanity. It was unbearable. It coated the entire blasted planetoid. It covered his proximity sensors, and it came from the buildings around him. Every single one looked empty.

They probably were. After all, what officer stuck around when there was no one left to command?

.

.

.

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End file.
